Nothing Comes without Sacrifice - Season 1
by PisuLuckee
Summary: The 311th Hunger Games is like no other. What happens when 24 young tributes battle for their lives in a fiendish game of murder and death? What happens when the game goes wrong? (SYOT closed)
1. Darkness Within

Hello! Welcome to Season 1 of the Hunger Games SYOT series I'm working on. I've had a blast coming up with ideas for this fic and I've been working on the opening chapters loosely for a while. I'm excited to finally post it!

 **Author's Note:** The first 7 chapters of this fic are entirely exposition/introductory and will **not** contain anyone's submitted tributes. This way I can update the chapters every 1-2 days to keep the fic active until all 24 slots have been taken. The fic may have a "slow" start, but the chapters will be posted quickly and after chapter 7 the reader tributes will begin to appear! Also note that most updates beyond the first 7 chapters will occur generally every 5-7 days.

 **SYOT Details:**

 **(1)** The tribute application form, along with the list of all remaining tributes is on my profile. If you would like to submit a tribute, please submit via **PM (private messaging)** so that way the details of your tribute remains a mystery for the readers!

 **(2)** Currently, I am only accepting 1 tribute per reader. If anything changes, I will update this point.

 **(3)** Death in the Hunger Games is inevitable. But when making the decision of who dies next, I will most likely protect the tributes of active readers. When a reader is active (reviewing, PMing me, etc) I know that they're really enjoying the fanfic, so I often want to preserve their tribute's life. That's just a good rule of thumb, and since there are no reader sponsorships, this gives the readers a chance to boost their tributes' lifespan. Don't hold me entirely to this method, though: I only said **most likely** , after all ;)

 **(4)** If you have any questions or concerns, please message me. I'll be happy to assist with anything!

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 **Darkness Within**

* * *

Everything was dark again—the entire world bathed in infinite blackness. He reached forward, almost absent-mindedly, his outstretched hands searching for anything recognizable. He felt nothing, and reached again, farther this time, his arms and hands moving fluidly, as though he were within a deep state of hypnosis. His fingers slipped through cold air, feeling nothing but a chilling breeze.

But he was in his bedroom. _Indoors_. There shouldn't have been a breeze.

Cole sat up in his bed, heart pounding and mind racing with the realization that something was wrong. Having escaped his ensnaring trance, the boy hobbled off the bed, his senses disoriented. He felt as if he had awoken from the deepest level of his subconscious, like a hibernating bear whose sleep had been altered by some strange anomaly.

"Hello?" he asked, as though expecting to be heard. As though the darkness of his bedroom would obtain a voice with which to whisper a profound response. "He-hello…?" he asked again, his tone shaky this time.

Cole stared into the blackness of his bedroom, squinting in attempt to discern a light source. But there was nothing.

A gentle breeze tickled his face. The hairs on his arms stood on end as his breathing became audibly tremulous. Slowly, he turned his head to the source of the cold air: the window. He realized it was open, the sound of curtains flapping in

Feeling his way through the darkness, Cole stopped in front of his window. He looked out, resting his elbows on the ledge. But what he saw—or rather, lack thereof—was wrong. There was nothing out there. Not just his bedroom, but the entire _world_ was quilted beneath some kind of enduring darkness, like an all-consuming void.

The boy looked down at his feet. He shook his head rapidly and clawed at his hair, trying to unclog his mind. Reluctantly, he lifted his head and gazed outside, slightly leaning out this time, in attempt to extend his vision. As if by some other-worldly obligation, he saw something.

Many blocks down the road stood a lonely, ill-lit streetlight—abandoned, save for a cloud of fog that crept eerily beneath it. Cole squinted until his eyes were nearly shut, looking for any sign of life in the shroud of mist that clung to the streetlight. There was none.

He had never seen District Two like this. It wasn't uncommon for him to awake in his bed, startled and sweating from a nightmare; or to spend other nights lying awake, staring at his ceiling and unable to sleep. But during none of those times had he ever seen District Two so lifeless. Something about this night was entirely different.

Instinctively, Cole turned to check the time: three in the morning. Or was it four? He couldn't tell—his digital clock looked half-dead, the numbers fading and blurring together in unreadable shapes. Regardless, it was late. Too late for him to be prowling the streets, he told himself.

He turned back toward the window and looked out again, eyes full of mysterious wonder. Something intangible was calling to him. The more he stared at the streetlight, the more he yearned to be outside, standing beneath it. His mind encouraged him to stay put—to go back to bed—but his heart begged otherwise. His body was splitting, crumbling on itself as the voices inside his head and heart battled to be heard.

Without rationalization, he was halfway down the staircase at the far end of the hall, tip-toeing to ensure he didn't wake up his parents or sister. Like his bedroom, the hallway and staircase were unlit; he relied on his outstretched hands for spatial guidance.

He heard the transitional step into the kitchen as his shoes clicked against the tile floor. Cole rubbed his arms up and down with his hands, breathing bitterly. It was June—typically a warm month—but his house was freezing. He searched in the storage closet for his oversized jacket, zipping it on quickly and slipping out the front door.

On the porch, Cole promptly shut the door and stared into the night: silence. Through the darkness he could hear no cars, no noisy neighbors, not even a bird or an animal _._ His street had never been busy, lying on the outskirts of Two, but this was all wrong _._ And creeping through the darkness, damp to the touch, was a bed of cold, constricting fog. This new world was hardly District Two.

He began to feel nervous—alone. He never did anything like this, _ever_. He wasn't the adventurous type, and yet he couldn't help himself. The streetlight was a few blocks away, the only one of its kind that was lit.

The boy shuffled ahead slowly, thick fog dispersing at his movements. Before long, he fell into a speedy pace, eager to satisfy his curiosity and return to the safety of his home. The farther he walked, the quicker an unequivocal truth surfaced: the streetlight was malevolent.

The light had once looked deceptively close, but now it seemed miles away. When he stopped and looked back, his house was completely engulfed in the encompassing fog.

When he turned back, the streetlight had changed position, as if controlled by a supernatural hand. It was just a block away, fading in and out of the swirling fog. Through the illusive darkness, he unable to tell if the streetlight was distant or near. Cole stared at it, his legs adrift with a momentary loss of balance. At the echoing sound of his gasp, he realized that the world was silent and hollow.

Cole advanced cautiously toward the light, hands propped in front of his torso for protection. As if in synchronization with his movement, the light started to flicker, emitting a faint buzzing hum. Every time his feet touched pavement, the light flickered faster, blinking wildly like a warning sign: "go back while you still have the chance."

His heart beat like a drum in his chest. His hands were sweaty, his knuckles shaky and white. He heard his body imploring to return home, but his curiosity persisted. He felt hijacked, a mere husk of a once-was human—a shadow puppet whose free will had been stolen by a mind-controlling alien.

Cole was a step away from the streetlight. He lifted his arm, stretching it forward as a child would to a cookie jar. He squinted his eyes, hardly able to identify the post's marble-green architecture through the shroud of fog encapsulating it. The flickering grew furious and the buzzing louder, the entire scene painted in front of a perpetually black backdrop.

And then he touched it.

And the flickering and buzzing ceased. The light dimmed, but illuminated just enough to see through the encircling fog. Cole snapped back his hand, surveying it with a horrified expression as though it were diseased. For a moment he analyzed his hand, turning it over and stretching his fingers. Then he looked up in shock, his clouded mind beginning to clear. Slowly, he felt himself regaining the grasp on his own free will, his consciousness rapidly bestowed upon him in terrifying realization.

Panic-stricken, Cole stumbled away from the streetlight, his chest and lungs tensing. He inhaled cold air, taking large gasps to delay his lapse of breath. As he stood there, enveloped in a blanket of fog, the gentle buzz of a lonely streetlight testing his sanity and infesting his mind like a virus, he realized he was—for the first time all night—not alone.

 _This was a mistake_ , he swore. His eyes tore dizzily through the dense emptiness, searching for his house among rows of charcoal, formless shapes that once resembled buildings and trees. Now, his house was a mere silhouette behind an unrelenting mask of darkness.

Instinctively, his legs began to move. _This was a mistake,_ he repeated.

Cole's walk became an awkward, loping run. He felt partially immobile, as though the fog were impeding his motions. Too terrified to look back, he tried to sprint, his breaths choppy and inconsistent. _Only forward,_ he insisted, his adrenaline barely surmounting the crushing weight of fog pressing down on his shoulders.

He was being chased—he knew it.

His house was a block away. Cole wheezed an audible gasp, reaching out his arms as though trying to pull his shadowy home closer.

Then something brushed his back.

Defensively, Cole reeled in a semicircle, nearly toppling over. When he looked back, his entire body froze, mouth agape. He blinked hard to clear his vision, but the horrifying scene remained true.

Looming only a step away, its dim glares radiating from a faintly illuminated bulb, was the streetlight.

He was back.

Cole spun around. Several blocks away—too many to count—stood his cloaked home. " _No!_ " he berated himself. His hushed voice echoed through the billows of fog, ricocheting off invisible barriers and resonating in his ears like a repetitive tune: "No! No! No! No!"

The hairs on his arms stood up. A feeling of nervous uncertainty overwhelmed him.

He was being watched.

Hovering across the street was a pair of black, soulless eyes rimmed with white, glowing eyelids. A thin, hunched figure lurked idly behind its wall of fog. It breathed silently but visibly, its stomach expanding and contracting where uneven breaths endured. And it looked only at Cole.

The boy felt himself getting hot beneath his jacket, but he couldn't move. He listed to his own frightened breaths, the sound of his pitiable fear making his entire body shake. He wanted to cry and scream out, but he was too terrified to even blink.

Suddenly the creature unleashed an ear-piercing screech. It sounded far from natural, but rather like a mechanical, grating wail released from a broken-down machine. Like snapping sticks harmonized with rusty, clanking metal, melded together by the faint sound of an animalistic howl. Like an animal in pain.

Cole's anxiety turned his nervous breaths into desperate, heaving gasps. He backed away, his eyes still fixed on the bony, humanoid creature behind the veil of fog. But it was like they were attached by an invisible string: in synchronization, the creature took a hunched step forward, matching Cole's speed. It hobbling through the fog—just an ominous silhouette—making that horrible noise again.

Cole panicked. He shut his eyes, turned on his heels, and ran. This time, he vowed he would not look back.

Sprinting, he could hearthe rough, claw-like steps of the creature chasing him. It's movements sounded like steel ripping apart asphalt, getting closer each time he released a choked pant. It repeated that horrible noise like a death-call, louder each time until it sounded like a perpetual howl ringing in the boy's ears.

Miraculously, the mirage of his house began to take shape as he barreled through his front yard. He clambered up the stairs to the porch, tripping on the last step and scraping his knee. Without faltering, he picked himself up and tore open the front door, slamming it shut the instant he was safely inside. He expected to hear the rough clattering of the creature ramming against the door, but he heard nothing.

Cole stared into the blackness of the kitchen, his back plastered against the door. Without looking, he fiddled with the doorknob until he successfully turned the lock. Only then did he release a pent-up sigh, sliding his back down the door and crying into his hands as he plopped onto the kitchen tile.

What was that creature? What was happening? Why did the entire world go dark? These questions and many more plagued his curiosity like a rampant disease.

Wiping away the last of his tears, Cole noticed something shining through his half-blurred vision: a light was turned on upstairs. Judging by the intensity and angle of the light beams, he guessed it came from his bedroom. Somehow, he _knew_ it came from his bedroom.

Cole crawled over to the stairs and began climbing them like a child—weak and out of breath, and on all fours. When his shaky legs stabilized, he stood up and ascended the staircase slowly, calling out as he reached the top step. "Dad?"

The boy staggered toward his bedroom, trailing his arms against the walls. "Dad?" he asked again, waiting intently for a response. He stopped at his doorway and peeked inside.

There was no one.

But his window had been closed. "H-hello?" His voice was timid. He walked carefully to the window, eyes downcast in nervous foreboding. His hands were shaking again; his bedroom was freezing.

Cole lifted his head an inch and peered outside. The streetlight had burnt out, blending into the rest of the black, abyssal world. His terrified breaths began to fog his window, redolent of entrapping fog from which he had narrowly escaped.

"Cole?"

The boy jumped at the sound of the familiar voice. He whirled around and saw his dad standing in the doorway. The man wore a look of genuine concern on his face. Almost symbolically, the room felt warmer, and Cole's fears began melting away.

"Oh, Dad!" Cole exclaimed. He breathed a therapeutic sigh of relief and laughed light-heartedly, mostly at himself. "Sorry…I think I just scared myself. Really, I'm fine now. Thank you for coming to see me." The blonde-haired boy gave his father a gentle, reassuring smile.

"Another nightmare again?" His father's voice was tranquil, almost angelic. _Calming_ was the accurate word, Cole decided.

"Yeah…heh," the boy laughed, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing down to shield the sheepishness in his eyes. "I'm tired, anyway. Sorry I startled you."

"No, no! It's alright, son. I'm glad you're okay."

Cole looked up again and offered a half-hearted smile. "Thanks, Dad." He turned around and shuffled with his balled-up sheets and out-of-place pillow, solemnly realizing how much the nightmare must have spooked him. He turned back to his dad as he crawled into bed. "Goodnigh…t?" But his dad was already gone.

Normally, his edginess would grant him little shut-eye after a nightmare, extending to hours of nervous tossing and turning until only the weary grasp of insomnia could lull him to sleep. But tonight, his exhaustion prevailed and his fears were shelved. Cole yawned and rolled onto his side, realizing his light was still on. "Whatever," he muttered, dismissing the notion and lazily resting against the pillow. Slowly, he felt the deep tendrils of sleep grasp and overtake his consciousness.

"Cole…"

The boy jolted. He blinked open his eyes and lifted his head off the pillow. At his doorway, he saw no one. The light was turned off.

Cole's thumping heartbeat made him tremble, as though the beating were magnified and had spread to every inch of his body. He laid his head down and stared disconcertedly at the blank ceiling. His palms were sweaty and shaking, so he brought them close to his chest as an act of protection. Then he clutched his eyes shut, forcing himself to find the sleep he desperately needed.

"Cole…"

The voice sounded closer now—hauntingly indistinct but clear at the same time. Cole didn't open his eyes. His mother's intuitive words replayed in his mind like a recording without end: "what you can't see, doesn't exist."

" _Cole!"_

His eyes shot open. He stared at the ceiling, a cold breath of air on his neck. _What you can't see, doesn't exist. What you can't see, doesn't exist._ But somewhere beyond his mother's words, beyond his own capacitance for disbelief, beyond the principles by which he lived his life and, by extension, had a feeble understanding of the universe around him, he knew that _it existed_.

He turned his head.

Floating across from him on the other side of the bed was that pair of black, white-rimmed eyes. " _Cole!"_ the humanoid creature wailed, extending a writhing, bony arm and grabbing at the boy's shoulders. Before he could scramble away, the creature had pulled him close. Cole screamed, his wails answered with a howling, murderous screech that bellowed from the monster's razor-toothed, red-blotted maw.

Cole smelled the scent of blood as his face scraped against the creature's sandpaper skin. It unhinged its jaw, revealing the soulless black hole that was its ever-hungry mouth. Cole tried to scream, but his voice was muted. He tried to push away, but his arms were numb. He wracked his clouded, hardly-functioning brain for some final insight—but he was left disappointed. He was going to die.

"Ahhhh! Ahh! Ahh…!"

Cole sprang up. He was in his bed, the last of his screams echoing off the walls as his body and mind adapted to this new, other-worldly scene. His blinked a few times, trying to adjust his eyes to the golden, glaring waterfall of sunlight that spilled through his bedroom window. His clock confirmed it was morning—much later than his normal waking hour.

Cole's heart was still thumping by the time his body relaxed. _"Woah_ …" he muttered, rubbing his groggy eyes. That inexplicable sense of a watching, unseen presence was gone, but he knew better than to trust his fallible perceptions. Almost impulsively, he tore the sheets off his bed to verify that he was truly alone.

Cole breathed a long, remedial sigh of relief; there was no creature—just an empty space that looked surprisingly undisturbed. "Woah." This post-nightmare alleviation was something Cole had grown accustomed to. After sixteen years, it almost felt routine.

The boy hopped out of bed in unusually good spirits. The prospect of not being eaten alive was probably to thank for that.

Cole slipped off his pajama shorts and shirt, replacing them with a t-shirt and jeans, and lastly a pair of socks. It was a brutally warm summer day, but his bone-chilling nightmare had left him shivering in the real world, as well. He combed his short dirty-blonde hair for a brief second before recognizing the smell of his mother's cooking wafting from the kitchen to his bedroom. "Pancakes," he said under his breath, the word itself infusing him with immediate hunger.

Cole took the opportunity to analyze his dream as he made the short trip to his kitchen. Certain parts of his nightmare—like that horrible creature—felt disturbingly familiar. A reoccurring dream? He had read about that kind of thing somewhere—probably at the school library. They were supposedly prophetic, he recalled, or instilled a cryptic, profound message. But what message? A conveyance of death? Cole frowned, perturbed that he was clinging to supernatural premonitions for answers. Maybe, _hopefully_ , the article he had read was just the rambling of a naive, gullible weirdo. Cole shrugged it off as he met his sister walking up the stairs.

"Hey Jade." He gave the black-haired girl a gentle smile.

She patted her brother playfully on the back as she passed him. "Hey sleepyhead, breakfast's ready. You're running late." She sounded cheery as usual, but Cole sensed a hint of trepidation in her voice.

"Late for…what?" he asked, genuinely confused. But as he watched her face grow pale and apprehensive, realization struck him. Like a pair of dying, unintelligible machines, the brother and sister fell despairingly quiet, devoid of life. "Oh…" was all Cole could mumble. And his good mood retracted, and with it the color from his face.

Jade bit her lower lip. "The reapings."

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 **Author's Note:** Please let me know what you think! In chapters to come I'll post "chapter questions" to help make reviewing more interesting, but for now I'm eager to see your tribute submissions!

Thankyou!

~PisuLuckee


	2. Afterlife

**Author's Note:** Chapter 2 here! Getting to meet a few more of the characters. Be on the lookout for anything of interest, almost everything will mean something or serve some kind of purpose :D

 **SYOT Note:** For readers who have not submitted a tribute to this SYOT, there are only 8 spots left! For quick reference, those spots are D3 Female, D6 Female, D8 Male, D9 Male, D10 Male, D10 Female, D11 Female, and D12 Female.

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

 **Afterlife**

* * *

The color had completely flushed from Cole's face by the time he took a wobbly seat at the kitchen table. He winced, silently reproaching himself for being so forgetful. _The reapings._ He realized they gave valid reasoning for his latest nightmare.

"Honey, pancakes for breakfast?" his mother asked in her warm, gentle way. She looked sincere as she watched her son's worried eyes, decidedly guilty for bringing him into this world.

Cole met her gaze and managed a faint smile. "Sure, Mom. Pancakes sound great." He rested his chin between his cupped hands. "Did you hear screaming last night? Or this morning?"

"Screaming?" she repeated, momentarily looking down and abandoning the partially-mixed pancake batter. Cole inferred she was in deep thought. "No, dear. No screaming. Did something happen?"

Cole shifted awkwardly in his seat, sitting back and letting his arms dangle limply at his sides. "Ahh—no, nothing happened. Um, just a spider. A really big spider. It scared me, so…I screamed, and I was afraid I woke someone up." He looked down at his empty plate, deciding whether he felt more ashamed for lying or more embarrassed for having semi-daily nightmares.

"You're a terrible liar," his mother said, pursing her lips and dismissing her son's deception. "It was another nightmare, wasn't it?"

"Yeah…heh, yeah…" _Nightmare_. That word had been a sleep-reducing, grimace-worthy staple in his side for sixteen years. He slowly lifted his face, hazel eyes matching his mother's as she approached the table.

She sat across from him and cupped two warm hands around his. Then she watched him, true remorse surfacing. Cole recognized the fading, lifeless facade glazing her regret-ridden eyes: guilt.

His mother broke her sympathetic stare and looked down, unable to maintain their eye-to-eye telepathy and concurrently retain her conscience. What could she say? _Cole, if you get reaped, I'll be happy to watch you on TV from the comfort of my own home. Aren't you happy I'm your mother?_ Cole knew what she was thinking—it was always easy to discern his mother's pain despite her silence.

She allowed her unkept dirty-blonde hair to shield her eyes.

"You know," the boy said, searching for the right words to raise her spirits. "Dad was in it. Dad was in my dream last night. Err—my nightmare, I mean."

His mother lifted her guarded face, interest piqued. She removed her bony hands from Cole's to wipe a stinging, runaway tear from her cheek. "He was?"

Then she began to weep quietly, undisturbed by her transparency. Cole's lips curled into a distinct frown, the heartfelt scene serving as a sharp depiction of how horribly her life had derailed. After Lehman's death, Lisa had fallen into a state of unbridled depression. She rarely slept, a part-time insomniac who spent long nights worrying about her children or yearning for the rebirth of her already-condemned life. She grew selfless. She protected her children's lives and happiness with admirable perseverance, offering her day's strength to clothe, feed, and shelter her son and daughter. This self-abandonment was the source of her trademark unbrushed hair, and she had long since formed wrinkled, dark bags beneath her ever-tired eyes. Her appetite had permanently fled, leaving her bony and emaciated. Lisa had once been beautiful, she claimed, before the tragedy. But she and her beauty died when she buried her husband.

"Mom, you look…are you okay? Please don't cry." Now Cole took his mother's hands. "You need to sleep more, mom. Please, go take a nap, or something. I'll make the pancakes. I'm barely hungry anymore anyway. Just, get some rest."

Lisa laughed solemnly. "The reapings are today. I need to be there…no time for naps."

"I can take care of myself," Cole insisted, squeezing his mother's hands to emphasize his sincerity. "And Jade, too. We won't get reaped, I promise. And if we do, a hundred others will volunteer. And we'll be back home by afternoon, and we can do something as a family. You don't need to worry about us, okay?"

Lisa shook her head vigorously and stood up, the chair bellowing an ugly screech against the kitchen tile. "A nap wouldn't help me anyway. I can barely sleep." She looked off to the side, as though staring into some vast distance visible only to her. Cole noticed she'd been losing herself frequently the past few weeks.

"Mom, is everything okay?"

Her trance popped like a bubble. "I'm sorry, dear," she said softly. "I was just thinking about your father."

The right words escaped him; her mention of Lehman made him anxious. She often dwelled on her husband's death—a recursive habit that would unequivocally helix into an eventual teary-eyed meltdown. Cole's inner compassion helped him string words together: "He still loves you." The simple sentence slipped out of his mouth faster than he could process it. _What am I saying?_

"What?" Lisa asked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…he's still out there," Cole said, half-insistent but also half-perplexed. "Wherever you go after you die. He's _there_. And he's not going anywhere. He's not gone, it's just…um, maybe we just need to wait to see him again? Yeah, he's just…waiting for you." He knew his amateur, psychologic attempt at philosophy was substandard, but the childish, believing look on his mother's face gave him a warm sense of feeling helpful.

"Right…" Lisa said. A few tears were running down her face, but she didn't bother wiping them away. Instead, she gave her son a faint smile. "You're right." Then she resumed making pancakes, all the while humming a song Cole didn't recognize.

He could only imagine what thoughts were running through his mother's unstable mind. Surely he had helped relieve the tempestuous pain inside her, but her despair was not erased. It was characteristic of her to relapse, and thereby sink even _further_ into the depths of her own torment. Cole's mind was reeling now.

And perhaps, the boy realized, suggesting that Lehman was waiting for her in the afterlife was unwise. It was nearly confirming her resolute beliefs that death was the only true remedy.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, dear." Her back was turned, but somehow Cole knew she was smiling.

"I _really_ love you."

Ponderous minutes passed as the duo loitered in silence, only the sizzle of the stove offering communication in the otherwise voiceless house. Talking about Lehman had formed several budding questions at the front of Cole's mind. How exactly _did_ his father die? He knew it was a car accident, but Lisa had always masked further details, insisting they were unimportant and tragically depressive. And for ten long years Cole had feigned disinterest, not wanting to torture his mother by prodding her for information. His family's feelings always came first.

"This thing is _ugly!_ "

Cole jumped at his sister's voice. Jade was parading herself around the kitchen in a huff, complaining about the dress her mother insisted she wear for the reapings. It was a pink, frilly mass of fabric that made the girl look like some sort of temperamental peacock.

"It was my reapings dress, honey", Lisa said. "A _long_ time ago." Cole thought he spotted a wince as she belabored the pronunciation of " _long_ ".

"What happened to my old one?" Jade inquired. "It wasn't as ugly. No offense Mom."

"You threw it away, remember?" Lisa asked through a suppressed laugh, shaking her head as though to inaudibly say "children these days". Jade had always hated dresses the same way she hated everything "girly".

"Oh yeah, I think I threw it away after the reapings last year." Then she ran her hands through the pink frills along her waistline, grimacing with shameless resentment. "Do I really have to wear this? Do I _have_ to?"

Lisa retrieved Cole's plate from the table and piled it high with pancakes, offering Jade an imploring look as they exchanged glances. The woman looked tired and desperate, as though her innocent eyes were silently pleading, "Please, just do this for me."

When Jade saw the worry on her mother's face, she dropped the argument. Instead, she walked ashamedly to Lisa and gave her a gentle hug. Then she turned to Cole, and with her teenage enthusiasm said, "Hurry up with those pancakes! Seriously Cole, we're not gonna be late this time. I don't want you to get hurt again."

Cole flinched. Reminded of his injury, he sat back against the chair and placed his socked foot on the empty space of the seat. He lifted his right jean pant to his knee and curiously surveyed the five inch scar on his inner lower leg. Looking at something so grotesque made his stomach queasy and stifled his appetite even further.

"Those bastards…" Lisa muttered, subconsciously clenching her fists as she took the seat adjacent to Cole's. Seeing the pain in his eyes, she came quick to his emotional rescue. "Don't let it bother you, honey. No one will hurt my boy like that again, not with me there."

"It was my fault," Cole said in half-voice, unsure of his own conviction. "I was late to the reapings, and I'm not allowed to do that. The Peacekeeper's were mad…so they taught me a lesson, I guess." He still remembered the stinging, reverberative pain as the sharp blade pierced his skin, leaving a gash that had required dozens of stitches—"too many to count" as Cole had described.

Jade tactfully sat opposite of Cole, careful not to wrinkle her dress. "It wasn't your fault," she insisted. "You weren't the only person late, and you know it. That one guy—Jax, or whatever—and _all_ of his precious career sisters came late, and no one cared at all. They only cared because it was you. They only cared because you're part of this family, and they hate us."

"Um—well, no. I really should've known better." Cole shrugged, needlessly defending the Peacekeepers. "They make our lives horrible on a daily basis, so of course they would hurt me if they had the chance. I should have seen it coming. They hate me. They hate you, Jade…they hate all of us." He chose his words carefully, not wanting to pinpoint his mother for fear her retrogressive personality would leave her uncontrollably depressed again.

"Only because we're rebels," Jade huffed. "They only hate us because we're their threat. Because we're not like everyone else here." She gently shifted an irritative wisp of her black hair to the side, fully revealing her face. The stark contrast of her dark hair against her ever-pale skin made her look like a campfire-story phantom.

Lisa was clenching and opening her fingers, undoubtedly stressed. Cole could feel the emotional weight in the room and fell into his own stupor, hands shaking.

"No one will hurt my children!" Lisa cried out, slamming down her palms and nearly breaking the dilapidated, wooden table. "These Peacekeeper's run around like they can do anything. Like they can ruin lives whenever they feel like it. They act like they own District Two!"

"That's because they do," Jade said pointedly. She wanted to defend her mother's sentiment, but she knew it would make her sound naive. The fourteen year old started to feel like the maternal figure in the family.

Lisa frowned, drawing in her lips as she contemplated her reaction. "You're right," she admitted, sighing. She grabbed her daughter's hand and held it close, looking into Jade's eyes with childlike fear. "Just don't forget who you are. You're part of this family. And you've chosen to be a rebel like the rest of us. The rebels…we are the future of this nation, I know it. I love you, honey."

Jade was overcome with emotion. She wanted to cry, but her perfected make-up and her image of maturity offered restraint. She tore her eyes from her mother's in a last-ditch effort to fight off the emotional toll. "Mom…I…" Then she closed her eyes and helplessly hung her head, compassionate toward her mother.

"Come here," Lisa said, trying to calm her daughter. She ran a bony hand through Jade's hair, then leaned over and kissed the girl on the forehead. "Stay strong, Jade. Don't cry—everything will be alright."

But Jade was too far gone. A few steamy tears were already trailing along her pale cheeks, and her breath grew shaky and ill-timed. "Will it? Will everything be alright?!" she asked, pulling away and standing up. "Everything is _horrible_. Nothing is going to be alright," she wailed. "Dad's dead, the Peacekeeper's treat our family like trash. _Everyone_ does. We hardly have any friends. Cole and I get bullied _every day_ for being rebels, and the teachers don't even care. Half the time they're the ones _doing it_. Do you know what they call us? What they call your son and daughter?" Jade choked back a sob, but it was hardly worth the effort. Her make-up was streaming down her face and the rims of her eyelids were a deep red. "Nothing's going to be alright."

Jade spun around and hastened out of the kitchen, the desperate click-clacks of her shoes trailing behind her to the stairs. She abandoned all caution of ruining her dress, no doubt fleeting to her bedroom for privacy.

Lisa sat like a statue, her eyes glassy with tears. Cole looked down at his uneaten pancakes, ashamed and empathetic. "Mom," he said, reaching for her trembling hand with a trembling hand of his own. "Mom, don't listen to her…she didn't mean it. She was just stressed. It's the reapings—she didn't know what she was saying. We're fine, I promise. We'll be alright."

"No." Her voice wasn't soft like Cole was expecting. "What do they call you at school? What do they do to you?! Have you been in more fights? I need to know this, I _need_ to." She spoke as though demanding, but her voice was so weak it hardly even sounded like a mild request.

"No, I've been staying out of fights," Cole answered, quiet and awkward. Self-admittedly, he realized "fights" wasn't the appropriate name, only a misleading diversion to suggest that he was even capable of throwing a decent punch. But perhaps it was Lisa's tactic of comforting herself—of in-explicitly saying "a five-on-one bout where my son is left defenseless and beat up every time."

Lisa closed her eyes, as though half-expecting the world and her problems to disappear. "Go talk to your sister. She really needs you to calm her down before the reapings. You're good at that. You're good at talking to her." She volunteered a look of genuine sympathy as she excused herself from the table. "I'm going to walk to town square now. F-for the reapings…"

"We can walk with you!" Cole piped up, concerned for his mother's well-being. "We won't be long. I'll get changed and get—"

"No, it's alright," Lisa said, holding up her palms to demonstrate her pacifism. "We don't need to argue about this. I'll be fine, honey. I know you're concerned for me, but it isn't your responsibility to be my parent. I…I'm sorry if I upset you today. Just get your sister—and please hurry," she added. Cole knew what she was alluding to.

"Are you sure, Mom? I—"

"Don't worry, Cole." She eased his worried expression with an assuring smile.

"I am worried, but…I'm sorry, I won't worry." Cole abandoned his still-uneaten pancakes to give his mother a hug and kiss. "We'll see you soon, okay? I promise."

The tall, wiry woman fetched her purse and slipped out the door. Alone, Cole took a moment to rummage through an old trunk in the living room closet. It mostly contained old papers or files, or strange-looking artifacts representative of District 2. But what he sought was the family photo album.

Cole skimmed through dozens of pages of timeless photos, many of their depicted scenes too old for him to have witnessed. There was his parents' wedding day, their honeymoon, a family vacation, he and his sister playing in the backyard. His family's entire life flashed before his eyes, melted on the pages like a stop-motion movie. Each picture ran perfectly parallel or perpendicular to the ones adjacent—no doubt his mother's meticulous work—each tiny moment capsulated in its own unmoving memory.

He paused momentarily on pictures of his father, gently touching the glossy photo paper as though trying to connect to a tactile afterworld. Lehman looked refreshingly happy, and Lisa looked even happier.

Cole shut the album; he couldn't bear it any longer. These memories were flooding his mind like parasitic nightmares, and he could feel the heavy weight of his stress pressing on his brain. _Not today_ , he vowed. _Need to focus._ He promptly returned the album to the rusty trunk, half-denying that he might never see it again.

Acknowledging his lateness, Cole took the stairs three at a time and breathlessly rifled through his closet for an appropriate reapings outfit. Begrudgingly, he slipped on a skin-tight elastic battle suit his mother had tailored for him the day he turned twelve. "You'll need _something to_ wear at the reapings," she had told him, to which he groaned in response, "No thank you." It was four years old, but he had grown very little, so it still fit, albeit making him look like a career. As he observed himself in the mirror, he realized how pathetic and inadequately-placed he looked.

He was _far_ from the average career: very skinny, light as a feather, not tall or strong, and prone to fits of panic and stress. A weapon was a foreign object to him, and his balance and agility could've been rivaled by that of a toddler. He exhaled a defeated sigh and walked into the hall with every intention of burying himself in the first ditch he saw.

"Jade?" the boy asked, knocking on his sister's half-open door. He snuck in quietly and saw the girl lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling in complete detachment from the world around her. "You're gonna wrinkle your dress, you know."

At first the girl said nothing. Then she released a blunt, unfettered groan, straining to force back a smile. "I hate this stupid thing," she muttered, hoping to retain her depressive attitude.

"Oh please," Cole said jokingly, "You think that's bad? I can barely breath in this thing."

Jade lifted her head. "Ha! Look at you. You could almost pass for a real tribute in that thing. Almighty career from District Two," she said whimsically. Cole couldn't tell if she were poking fun at him, or mocking the importance their district placed on the Hunger Games.

"Oh, shut up," he quipped, rolling his eyes. "We need to go, anyway. Mom already left, and I don't want things to turn out like last year."

Jade lazily rolled out of bed, paying secret attention to avoid ruffling her dress. "My make-up looks almost as bad as my sketch book. I'm such a mess now." Her voice was surprisingly pleasant in light of the dire situation.

"I just wanna get out of this ridiculous outfit."

"Same. I feel like I'm drowning in this thing." She was reworking her make-up in front of the mirror. "I can't believe I cried in front of Mom. I don't know what got over me…" Her voice was hushed as though protecting an ineffable secret.

"At least you seem better now." Cole noticed how puffy and red his sister's eyes were. "You look fine, you know. No one's gonna judge you out there. You're the most beautiful girl in District Two—you know, um, in a non-creepy way."

Jade tried to stifle a childish giggle, her brother's innocence amusing her. "I guess you're right. Most of the girls here look like mongrels, anyway."

Cole laughed to himself; Jade hated the careers, and on reaping day jokes were never in short supply. The boy rubbed the back of his neck and stared at his shoes, a toothless grin illuminating his features. "If that's the case, then maybe I don't have anything to worry about, looking like this," he said, pinching away the fabric of his elastic outfit and letting it snap back sharply against his leg.

"Nah," Jade said, her spirits uplifted. "You look way cool in that thing, anyway. No one can touch my big brother." She stopped tampering with her make-up, tired of fine-tuning every detail when she was treated like a pariah, regardless. Jade rubbed an invisible wrinkle from her dress as she approached Cole. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** Opinion of Cole's (slightly dysfunctional) family? **  
**

 **Author's Note:** Don't really want to say much here yet because I don't want to give anything away! But following Cole's opening storyline closely will make the rest of this fic all the more enjoyable :P

Til next time,

~PisuLuckee


	3. Walking Transparency

**Author's Note:** Hey! So happy I could get this chapter finished and posted today. I'll be fairly busy the next week, but I have chapters 4-7 written (just need to edit them), so I'm hoping to get the next chapter ready and updated by Tuesday. Anyway, it's been a blast reading your reviews and all your PM comments-all of this encouragement is very appreciated!

 **SYOT Note:** All slots have been filled! If there are any changes or dropouts, I will edit this point.

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

 **Walking Transparency**

* * *

Cole locked the door behind his sister and strolled to the edge of the porch. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh air outside his tension-filled home.

The day was refreshing—a natural spectacle. The sun shone radiantly, hanging in the vibrant sky like a golden-sphered beacon of hope. A sweet, gentle wind trickled through the trees, ruffling their leaves with a whispering, shimmery echo. Even the birds seemed content, singing enthusiastic melodies and calling to their feathered neighbors in a chorus of uplifting chirps. Hauntingly, this beautiful scene sharply juxtaposed what lay ahead at town square.

Cole and Jade walked side by side up their quiet, secluded street. Their house was at the far end, cornered between a river and a few other upscale cottages, several of which had been abandoned. It was the perfect place for a rebel family to go unnoticed—close to the school and market, and far from the District Two limelight.

"It's so hot," Cole said, grimacing. It was the dead of June; the sun was magnificent, yet unforgiving. Already, the siblings were sweating uncomfortably beneath their reapings outfits, Cole's former nightmarish chill having long since fled.

"It sucks, but we'll be home soon. I just don't wanna burn."

Cole glanced sidelong at his sister's pale skin, which looked like it might catch fire on a whim. "You should've, um, put on lotion. Well,"—he poked his own skin, watching it fade and then regain it's natural color—"I guess I should've, too."

"Oh, don't worry. We won't be home before _looong_." Jade's playful whistle was coupled with a zestful skip in her step.

"Well, you know, unless we get reaped, that is." He intended to be joking, but the gravity of their situation made him backtrack in anxiety. "Err—yeah. What you said: 'we won't be home before long'."

"You nervous?" Jade asked.

Cole rubbed the back of his neck and awkwardly averted her gaze. "Nervous? Ahh—well, maybe a little bit. Probably just the heat getting to me, though. So no…no, not nervous."

"You _are_ ," she said, emphasizing her words as though accusing him of a heinous crime. "I can hear it in your voice. You sound all shaky, and you won't look at me! I think you're scared out of your wits."

Cole was tempted to deny it, though mostly for his sister's sake. Of course he was scared—"scared out of his wits" like every year. But contagious fear was deadly, and Jade was barely making due as it were. The blonde-haired boy simply offered an inspiriting smile. "No, really, I'm okay! It's just, I forgot the reapings were today. And I mean, it's just _so hot_ , that's all."

"I'm scared too." She disregarded his comment about the blistering heat. "But it'll be fine. People are gonna volunteer like every year; I don't get why we even worry. And besides, my name's in there—what— _three_ times? And yours…like five?"

"Seven," Cole corrected. "I took out tesserae, remember?"

"Yeah." Jade gave a small nod and glanced skyward, trying to recall the exact circumstances under which Cole had conceded to the Capitol's "charity". But she couldn't remember; why didn't she know about the tesserae? It was likely their mother had kept it a secret, lest Jade should worry tirelessly about her brother. She didn't enjoy being left out of these important family matters, but her mother's silence had certainly been with good intention: now, Jade _was_ worrying tirelessly about her brother. "Actually," Jade corrected. "I don't remember that at all. When did you take out tesserae?"

"Heh, oh yeah," Cole said, mentally biting his tongue. "Mom didn't want to make a big deal out of it. She said she didn't want to stress you out over things you don't have any control over. She was afraid you would…worry about me."

Jade frowned her cherry-red lips, which looked like a clown's painted against a stark-white face backdrop. She withheld divulging she _was_ worried. "When was this? Recently? How old were you? Be honest."

"Woah, um, okay. Remember when Mom sold your blue jacket because it was 'getting too small for you'?"

"Yeah?" Jade's frown multiplied. "That was like, three years ago."

Cole watched her through guilt-ridden eyes. He felt twitchy and uncomfortable, even if she was only his sister and, admittedly, his best friend. "We were really poor. I mean… _really_ poor, to the point where Mom was selling everything for a little bit of money. She tried to keep it a secret from us…but then, this one day, I found her shaking all over. She looked crazy. But it wasn't like normal—it felt different. Like, um, like she had no hope left. So I sat her down and she told me that we had no money because the Peacekeepers were overcharging our taxes on purpose. Well, she swore they were doing it on purpose to make our lives a mess."

"What?!" Jade's exclamation did little to mask her disbelief. She felt enlightened, as though exposed to an entirely new dimension, one only accessible by those deemed mature enough to witness it. She clenched her fists unknowingly, face filled with irrepressible vengeance. "I thought we were hidden from the Peacekeepers? Isn't that why we moved here? To stay under the radar? Things seemed like they were getting better the last couple years."

"We're never hidden," Cole admitted. He swallowed hard to relieve his dry throat—or perhaps to wash away his emotional pain. Talking about their family's misfortune made his stomach churn.

The duo turned unwillingly onto District Two's city-spanning main road, an opulent runway of expensive shops and restaurants. "We could live anywhere," Cole continued. "It doesn't matter. As long as we're in Two, they're gonna find us. And as long as they've found us, we're gonna be the outcasts." He voiced the last word with a trace of disdain, as though mimicking one of the disparaging Peacekeepers.

"Well—whatever," Jade said, disgruntled. She wanted to offer insight, but she felt like a mere child debating adult matters. She had always advertised her maturity; now she just felt helpless and ill-informed. "How about this: if we get reaped, we win these games and _get outta here_. Move to a rebel district. Me and you, and Mom will come with us, I bet. District Twelve could use people like us! They're gonna strike the Capitol any day now."

Cole detected the childlike wonder in his sister's voice, and he smiled. But his mind still tripped on 'win these games'. "Err—you're going to win the Hunger Games? I didn't know you planned on volunteering. And that you're a career in training."

Jade lightly punched her brother's arm. "Oh shut up. Scratch that part of the plan, then. I'm not a career in training, I hate the careers."

" _Shhh_ ," Cole whispered harshly. He glanced around, feeling out of place among the surrounding careers who likewise converged on town square. "They'll kill you if they heard you say that. Don't wanna get caught mocking them today." His tone was light and airy, but his message was serious.

Jade made an exaggerated "oops" face, bringing a hand to her lips as she laughed at herself. Then she said in a teasing voice, "Oh, I don't have to worry. Everything's fine, I have my big brother to protect me."

"Heh—um, well, your big brother isn't gonna be much help," the boy confessed, sizing up the nearby careers, male and female alike. In every way, he felt inferior. "Unless by 'protect you,' you mean 'get destroyed while you make a safe getaway'. Then yes, I'd be pretty good at that."

Jade giggled. "I wouldn't run!"

"Good. 'Cause I would need your help," Cole said, squinting his eyes to deflect the sun that peeked luminously over the top of a silhouetted building.

"Oh, please. You wouldn't need me. Stop underestimating yourself!" the girl said, her once-humored voice now sincere. "Yeah, maybe you don't _look_ like a career, and you don't _act_ like a career. Or for that matter, you don't know how to use a _weapon_ like a career,"—Cole grimaced as her list of does-nots grew longer—"but you have other skills. You're smart, and you're quiet—which is probably pretty rare for a male from Two. And you're good at like, being nice to _everyone_ , so you'll probably make a lot of friends. And if you have friends, you have allies."

Cole looked back and forth as though searching for the 'friends' his sister mentioned. "But I don't have friends."

Jade shook her head vigorously. "In the games you would have _lots_ of friends…everyone would love you. Maybe not the sponsors—or the escort, or the mentor—but the other tributes would adore you. Think about it: the rebel from District _Two_? You'd be their hero, Cole." She rested a small hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him forward in a way to suggest that town square was nothing to be afraid of. "See? My big brother is a _lot_ tougher than he looks."

As if on cue, a high-pitched shriek parted the crowd behind them. A young boy emerged, bounding down the sidewalk in their direction, face flushed and full of despair. Behind him stampeded a much older boy, one Cole recognized from school—a ruthless, bloodthirsty career who loomed over his victim like a skyscraper would over a District Twelve bungalow. Cole's paranoia convinced him that this predator-prey depiction was hauntingly cited from his nightmare.

"Cole! Cole!" the young boy squealed, extending his arms to the blonde boy and then systematically hiding behind him. "Help me!"

Cole moaned pitiably. It was Asa James, a twelve year old he knew from school. The boy was prone to mischief, a semi-outcast in his own light due to stunted growth and physical defects. Asa was no rebel, but he was open-minded enough to call the older, blonde boy a friend. "What did you do this time?" Cole asked, massaging his aching forehead.

Before the frail boy could respond, Lance Tocar roared, "That little _shit_ just pick-pocketed me! Tried to steal my pocket-knife without me noticing!" He pointed an accusing finger at Cole, who stiffened before realizing he wasn't the source of Lance's blame: Asa yelped nervously behind him.

Cole furrowed his eyebrows and frowned. "Um, did you? Did you steal his knife?" he asked, turning to Asa. The boy sheepishly blushed, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tremulously stepping back.

"Um…" He looked at the ground as though burying his shame. From a near-invisible pocket, he unveiled a small blade. The knife was ornate and appeared expensive—perhaps an heirloom, or just a finely-crafted reminder of Lance's sadistic prowess. "Here," Asa said, handing it to Cole as though it were his. "He can have it back."

"You're _damn right_ I can have it back!" Lance wagged another blaming finger, the veins in his neck protruding further on each of his loud-spoken words. "You think you can just steal shit from me? Do you even know who I am?! I'll break you in half, you little maggot!"

Lance suddenly stepped toward Cole and Asa, making them lurch back in fear. His bulging frame overshadowed their skittish bodies, his domineering attitude turning the boys to jello.

"Here!" Cole fumbled with the knife and nearly dropped it. His hands were failing him: fingers tense and palms sweaty. Jade stood at his side, wringing her hands nervously. "He's sorry," Cole spoke for Asa. "He was just looking for a bit of fun, I promise. We really didn't mean to bother you."

" ' _We_ '?" Lance recited, snatching the knife from Cole's pedestal hand. "Were you in on his little scheme, too?" The eighteen year old looked like an unstable bomb that could detonate on impulse. Cole was well-prepared to shrug off a few punches from a freckle-faced school bully, but Lance was a gladiator trapped in a teenager's body. "Hey, wait a second. You're that Cole kid, aren't you? Yeah, I've seen you around. This just got a _helluva_ lot better for me."

Cole fidgeted, but tried to suppress his fear. "Err, y-yes. I'm Cole," he stammered.

Jade noticed her brother's voice straining. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder and offered an encouraging look, as though to say "you don't need to be afraid of him".

Lance's tone was laced with ridicule. "Yep, I knew it. Thought you could hide from me? You're that rebel trash." He released a hollow-sounding bellow of laughter, the muscles in his face expanding and contracting as though they were laughing with him.

Without a moment to react, the trio was encircled by a pack of cutthroat careers, no doubt Lance's friends. They were out of breath and red-faced, and looked undeniably older than their actual ages.

Lance beamed fiendishly, his teeth glinting murderously in the sunlight. "Yeah, you _are_ that rebel trash. The one who always gets his _ass_ handed to him after school because his mommy hasn't taught him how to defend himself! Why the hell haven't we met before?" He extended his hand, expecting a handshake. "I'm Lance, by the way."

Cole surveyed Lance's hand incredulously, as though it were some sort of alien specimen. He knew Lance wasn't in the friend-making business, but could he refuse a false act of kindness when a dozen pairs of career eyes concentrated on him? "Yeah, um…well, I'm Cole. It's nice to meet you."

The handshake lasted a few seconds, their friction dissipating. Then Lance stopped mid-shake, smiling through well-polished teeth and maintaining his bone-crushing grip on Cole's hand. " _Very_ nice to meet you, too." Lance snapped back his wrist like a lasso, the sudden jolt of force wrenching Cole forward. But the boy's reflexes were remiss, his legs slow to support his torso as he landed face-first on the ground.

Lance and his friends laughed scornfully while Cole dusted himself off, mortified.

"Very classy," Jade muttered, sharp-tongued. "Knocking down someone when they're shaking your hand? Clearly you're a backstabber."

"Oh, and who are you?" Lance rounded on her like a hawk. "His little girlfriend? His sister, maybe? Yeah, you look like a rebel." He ruffled her straightened black hair as he would a cat's fur. "If you weren't a rebel, I'd say you look _almost_ half-decent for a girl from Two—or not. Do you know how much I've heard about you?"

"Oh! You've heard about me? Really?" She faked an interested voice, her face naive with awe and admiration. "I didn't realize I was such a celebrity. You really just made my day, so thank you! What exactly did you hear about me? Something good, I hope?" she asked, disregarding his attempt at a rhetorical question.

Lance bent down until he matched her height. "You're a funny one, aren't you? A bit a mouth you've got. I guess you're the daring one in the family." He squinted at her in disgust, his eyes like hot lasers against her skin. Then he jerked forward abruptly, outstretching his hands as if trying to grab her.

Jade staggered back in shock, crashing into a shrieking Asa. Lance howled with laughter, his derision catching like fire and spreading into a chorus of sniggering and finger-pointing.

"And that's all you'll ever be: a bunch of good-for-nothing rebels. Scared of your own damn shadows. Not even loyal to your own district! You tell me I'm a backstabber, little girl? You should be _killed_ for the kind of shit and betrayals you rebels pull against the Capitol."

Jade bit her lip and tensed her balled-up fists. Asa cowered behind her, shaking and tugging at her arm unwittingly. Cole had regained his composure and lingered at his sister's side—eyes fixated on the ground—silently wishing the Earth would open its gaping maw and swallow him.

"Heh heh." Lance shook his head in mock pity. "I almost feel bad for you three, hiding behind each other like I'm not going to see you. That kind of fear makes me _angry_." He lunged forward like a frenzied bear, extended both arms and slammed his palms into Cole's chest. The boy toppled backward, smashing his head off the asphalt.

"No!" Jade screamed, kicking mercilessly at Lance's leg.

But he shoved her down too, then rejoined a half-wounded Cole. Lance stood over the boy like a physical giant, his immense frame drawing a sharply defined silhouette against the sunny backdrop. He pulled out his pocket-knife, kicking Cole in the stomach to regain the boy's attention. The blonde cried in pain while Jade pleaded from the ground.

Seeing the blade in Lance's ironclad grip withered Asa's breath. The twelve year old took a judicious step backward, his face entirely devoid of color. He wheezed, "D-don't hurt C-cole…Please, Cole didn't do anything wrong. I-it was me!"

Lance knelt beside Cole and placed a strong hand on his shoulder, pinning him down. "I just came from town square, you know. And I saw your mother," he hissed, his voice toxic. "Your crazy, messed- up-in-the-head mother. No wonder why she's always unemployed. That psycho bitch is _insane_. I bet she lost her mind when she buried the pieces of your Dad. And let me take a wild guess"—the blade caressed Cole's cheek—"she would do _anything_ to keep her precious babies safe."

" _Lance Tocar_." A booming, unfamiliar voice resonated, a thunderous rumble of an earthquake tremor. Lance's manic face shot back and forth until his dark eyes spotted a surly Peacekeeper. "What a pleasure seeing you and your friends here, Mr. Tocar."

The circle of careers surrounding Cole rapidly disintegrated like a dissolving pill. Lance's friends scattered, leaving the black-haired boy kneeling with a knife pressed against his victim's cheek. "Don't you have anything better to do than terrorize these kids? Lance, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you a career, or are you a murderer?"

"So sorry, Mr. Rubin." Lance clambered to his feet, standing stiff with his hands obediently at his sides. "I was just…taking my knife back. These kids stole it, you know. But I got it back now, so everything's alright." His vocal inflections paralleled his dread.

The Peacekeeper briefly studied Lance. Then he glanced at a shuddering Cole, then at a terror-stricken Asa. "These kids stole it from you?" he asked. " _These_ kids? The great Lance Tocar got his knife pick-pocketed by a bunch of scrawny rebels? Was Lance unable to fend them off? Even with ten of his friends surrounding them? They were just _so unstoppable?_ Of course, they must have been so threatening that Mr. Tocar needed to retaliate by holding one of them at knifepoint. That's what happened, right? Bullshit. Now get the hell out of here, and take your gang of hoodlums with you."

"Yes, M-Mr. Rubin." Lance obliged without hesitation, tripping over his words. He glowered at Cole before scuttling away in a huff.

Cole clumsily scrambled to his feet, his legs weak and quivering. He had a knick on the side of his forehead where he scraped the ground, but it went unnoticed—the notion of getting stabbed by a sadistic career was incentive enough to place his worry elsewhere.

He helped Jade up, who sported her own scrapes and bruises. She moaned, "Thanks, _Asa_. Next time, please keep your problems far, far away from us."

Asa flinched and squeaked nervously. The Peacekeeper—an aforementioned "Mr. Rubin"—was wordlessly watching their dispute through a pair of black, enigmatic eyes.

"I'd hate to interrupt your blame game, but—err, you kids alright?" the man asked, wincing almost imperceptibly. His words sounded forced and unbefitting for a Peacekeeper, as though this were his first encounter with expressing genuine kindness.

"Th-thank you for your help. And, um, yes, we're alright." Cole's response was meek, but polite.

" _Barely_ alright," Jade interjected, a frown on her face that bluntly contrasted her brother's shock-ridden expression. "That could've ended really badly."

Mr. Rubin sighed heavily through his nose. The man looked nearly forty, well-built and unafraid. He had a scruffy, hardened face that even the most dauntless careers knew to avoid. "Well, you kids are a bit slow in the head, you know that? Messing around with careers twice your size. Now, I'm not gonna pretend I believe that idiot's story about you stealing his knife, but be _careful_ next time. You wanna be rotting at the bottom of the lake somewhere? _Shit_ …"

Cole timidly squeezed his hands together. He could name almost every Peacekeeper in District Two, but Mr. Rubin was beyond that list—he was an unrecognizable mystery. And his intentions were likewise perplexingly fickle: at first he was their valiant, kind-hearted savior, and now he was berating them in the same manner he had reprimanded Lance.

But the blonde-haired boy ignored this curiosity, remembering something. "Um, Mr Rubin? There's something I wanted to ask you. How did you know—I mean, well—how _exactly_ did you know that we were—"

"Rebels?" the man finished. Cole nodded his head slowly, uncomfortable that his thoughts were transparent for the Peacekeeper to read.

Mr. Rubin bent over and mimicked Cole's height. The man's eyes widened—reflective saucers through which Cole could nearly see his own trepidation—and his voice became hushed, as though he were sharing information of utmost secrecy. "When you're a rebel, you can't hide. We've never met before, but I still know who you are, and all about you. We all do: every Peacekeeper in District Two knows about you and your sister. Almost every _family_ knows who you are. It doesn't matter where you go; as long as you're in District Two, you aren't as hidden as you think." He glanced at the spot where Lance had pinned Cole to the ground, as though the career's invisible spirit still lingered there. "Murdering people is illegal," he said, his voice thick with superstitious sincerity. "But murdering rebels is only half-illegal."

Cole swallowed hard as Mr. Rubin reeled back into an upright stance. The tension in the air hung heavy like fog. And for a moment the entire world seemed to go quiet and monochromatic, as though Cole were omnisciently watching himself from some other facet of reality. Then the Peackeeper gave a sinister, toothy grin, and the world snapped back to sudden normalcy.

"Enjoy the games, Cole." He winked cleverly at the boy. "And you too, Jade."

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** Favorite character? Also, what do you think Mr. Rubin's deal is?

 **Author's Note:** The games are approaching quickly! And things are a bit depressing for our poor Cole and Jade right now, but at least Cole's head is still on :x Anyway, hopefully I can continue these fast updates for the next few chapters until the rest of the tribute slots are taken up. Til next time, happy almost-Hunger Games!


	4. The Reapings

**SYOT Note:** At the end of this chapter is the tribute list. Please verify that your tribute is recorded correctly and that it's completion status is accurate.

 **Author's Note:** Sorry for the long delay! I had family visiting from Sunday to Thursday which really limited my writing time. Anyway, here's chapter 4-I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

 **Also** , on my profile page I've included contact information; if for whatever reason you need to or have the desire to contact me, you can try one of those other options instead of PMing me on here.

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

 **The Reapings**

* * *

"What a jerk," Jade muttered through gritted teeth as Mr. Rubin vanished into a different crowd of careers, no doubt scaring them half to death, as was his custom. "For once I thought we found a Peacekeeper who I didn't hate. He acted nice, then he just got crazy."

"He wasn't that bad," Cole said, his voice calm but effectively cloaking his own apprehension. What had Mr. Rubin meant to achieve? Was he trying to subtly help them—to warn them? Or was he just a smug despot as his sister had depicted? Cole furrowed his eyebrows in deep thought as Asa pushed their walking pace from behind, like a talkative, high-pitched conveyor belt. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You don't have to get rowdy," Cole mumbled, removing Asa's propeller hand from his back. "Um, do you think Mr. Rubin was trying to tell us something deeper? Err—well, I mean, it's just that most Peacekeepers are so blunt with us, but he treated us differently: almost like he cared. What do you think?"

"Don't know," Jade said matter-of-factly. "I just think he's a shady guy. And he's _still_ a Peacekeeper, even if he treated us differently. And all Peacekeeper's are shady. Not to mention they're born to hate us."

Cole winced ponderously, as though his intrigue were a dull ache in his brain. Asa merely watched and listened with naive inquisitiveness, feeling too young and unhelpful to contribute to their conversation. "I just don't think he was that bad to us," Cole repeated. "He saved us. And he could've done a lot worse."

"I guess." Jade's tone did not camouflage her incredulity. She dropped the discussion, tracing her fingers along a stinging gash that orbited her forearm like a bracelet. "I hope Lance gets reaped and he dies in the bloodbath. How's your head? You're still bleeding a little. Seriously, he might've _killed_ you."

"No, no." Cole waved a dismissive hand as if to say "it's fine". "He's just a stupid career. That's what they do. That's…that's what they're _born_ to do. My head's fine, thanks, but whatever." He said the last word with such uncharacteristic nonchalance that Jade further frowned her already-pursed lips.

" _What?_ You can't just ignore what he did! You always defend people," Jade argued, swiping the air with exaggerated hand motions. "Why do you do that? Lance almost killed you! And think about all the horrible things he said about mom! And what about Mr. Rubin? I don't care what you say, he was flat-out untrustworthy. I love you, but sometimes you're just too nice for your own good."

Cole rose his eyebrows, but he didn't meet her desperate stare. He couldn't say she was wrong. Maybe he was too trusting? Or too believing in "the greater good of people"? He customarily allowed his stress to run rampant, but in a defiant way he had chosen to act composed and unconcerned. "Oh, um…don't get me wrong: I mean, I was scared. But I don't want revenge, because he's not a bad person. Well, maybe he is. But I don't see it that way. He's just different than we are, I think."

Jade exhaled a sharp line of air, exasperated. Her innate judgment fortified her claim that Lance was bad, but Cole's maturity and pragmatic vindication made her consider otherwise. "Maybe you're right, I don't know. I'm just trying to help. But either way, it's entirely _his_ fault." She nodded toward Asa, the sparkle in his eyes disappearing like dust.

Cole sighed. "It's not—"

"There you go again," she interposed. Asa remained quiet—they bickered like his parents.

Cole rolled his eyes and forced back a smile—his sister was always stubborn when she was "just trying to help". "Well—um, it's just—I don't think we need to point fingers. It's not his fault and it's certainly not ours. Let's just all…be friends?" He gave Asa a quick smile, who toothily grinned back in agreement. flushed

Cole admired his twelve-year old friend. Asa was an outcast for his own reasons. He looked far from a typical career, and obtained his few friends by being unconditionally kind, albeit immature at times. Cole felt oddly linked to him, by virtue instead of blood. But Asa had never been afraid to irritate the mighty careers, despite his stunted growth and sickly defects. He wasn't blessed with strength, but alternatively with speed. In his mind, Cole counted his own skills, rapidly feeling far inferior to his younger, black-haired counterpart.

Asa tugged at Cole's sleeve to get the blonde's attention. The pale boy stared up at him, looking unhealthy and pallid, an idiosyncratic parity to the vampire era. "Cole, can we go to the library after the reapings? There's this new book I wanna show you. It's all about the Capitol and Panem, it's really interesting. It's got everything. It's…" He trailed off, too excited for his own good.

Cole smiled warmly and nudged Asa's arm. "Sure we can." He fell into step with the boy and walked alongside him, a few paces behind his sister. "You know it wasn't your fault, right? Jade didn't mean to blame you like that. She's…she's just a little shaken up because of the reapings."

Asa smiled again, his lost confidence quickly restored. "Thanks Cole. But still…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you in such big trouble. I could've gotten you hurt, and it would've been all my fault. You're my best friend, I don't know what I would do without you." He sounded genuinely apologetic, kicking shyly at the asphalt as he took blame.

"Wait, really? I…I'm y-your best friend?" Cole had long since understood to remove the words "best friend" from his vocabulary. Hell, just "friend" was rare enough. "That means a lot, Asa. Th-thank you."

"Of course!" Asa smiled up at him, oblivious to Cole's honest appreciation.

The blonde felt an emotional lump rising in his throat. With this revelation, he felt obligated to ensure Asa was healthy and his life happy. "How are you feeling?" Cole asked, nodding at the boy as though pointing at something specific. "You're not feeling sick anymore, are you? You said your meds used to make you feel sick."

"Oh, no! I'm fine. Doctor changed it right up. And they're just _vitamins_ , not meds," Asa said, sticking his tongue out and smiling giddily.

Cole sheepishly averted his friend's gaze. "Oh-h—right, 'vitamins'," he stammered.

"But Doctor says the Peacekeepers are trying to run him out of business."

"Why the hell would they do that?" Cole asked, reflexive irritation in his tone. Then he looked ruefully at Asa and quickly backpedalled: "Err—why the _heck_ would they do that?"

Asa giggled as though listening to the ramblings of an inexperienced child. "It's not like I've never heard you curse before. What are you, my mom?" He swallowed another snicker.

Cole grew flustered, his face already red from the torrid sun. "Sorry—it's just, maybe I should be nicer to you. I guess I never really treated you the best, have I?"

Asa cocked his head to the side like an impish puppy. "Nicer to me? Cole, you're the best best _bestest_ friend a person could ask for." He flashed his teeth in a full-faced grin, nudging the blonde's elastic arm with his. "And I saw what you did with Lance—you got my back!"

Cole wondered if "got my back" had been redefined to mean "stood around being useless", but he spared the question for the sake of his own self-esteem. Still, Asa's ever-optimistic words had lured a genuine smile to Cole's face. "I didn't realize you looked at me as some hero, or something. It actually means a lot, so…thanks, buddy," he said, and Asa matched Cole's expression with a quirky smile of his own.

Their ephemeral contentment melted like the wax of a waning candle as the trio arrived at town square, the fire fueling their happiness completely extinguished. Town square was a robust swarm of power-hungry teens, all waiting restlessly at the foot of a grand stage. New arrivals formed two long, winding lines in wait of a DNA registration finger prick. Typical careers assembled District Two's yearly roundup: tall, strong, fast, and "even occasionally smart" as Jade had mocked. Each career possessed a wide assemblage of their hallmark strengths and weaknesses, but one realization became abundantly clear to the three wide-eyed onlookers: they all looked petrifying.

The stage was littered with oversized television screens, serving to provide real-time feedback of the reapings. At a microphone stood a poodle-haired Capitol representative, her height humorously underlined from behind a looming podium. She gussied herself using a bedazzled pocket-mirror, perfecting her hair and tilting her powdered face in a multitude of directions to ensure the light caught her beauty from every angle.

Jade exhaled grouchily, blowing air upward and dispersing wisps of her hair. Then she turned to her brother, eyes glazed-over. "I'm sorry," she moaned, embracing him without warning. She held him firmly as a single burning tear slid down her cheek. "Let's just get home, okay? I'm sorry I blamed Asa." She released Cole and gave the other boy an Asa-sized hug of his own. "I'm sorry I blamed you, okay? I was just scared and moody, that's all."

Cole rarely saw true emotion in his normally easygoing sister, but he strangely welcomed this change. "We'll be okay. People will volunteer like every year…nothing to worry about. Let's just get this over with and get back to mom." He pointed to the blonde-haired woman from across the plaza. She stood beyond the fenced perimeter with other career families like an appalling monstrosity, her horrified visage supplementing her ever-tired features. "For mom, okay? She needs us."

Jade looked at her brother innocently, her face almost imploring. "Yes," she said finally. Before her emotions could wreak havoc on her make-up, she separated from her brother and joined a line of females waiting to get their fingers pricked. She watched Cole and Asa form the tail of their respective line, seamlessly merging with careers twice their size like tiny, unwanted parasites invading an ever-growing organism. But they wore helpless, benign expressions. _They look like cattle_ , she thought _, lining themselves up just to get slaughtered._

Cole inched forward in conformity with the line. To keep his restless mind at bay, he chronicled his minor cuts and bruises. Asa stood behind him, paler than an ill vampire, a feat that hardly seemed possible even for the sickly child. They were insulted by the occasional passerby, but remained passive and unaffected: nothing new.

Cole heard the boys in front of him squabbling, a brutish outburst of finger-pointing and teeth-clenching threats. He could hardly decipher if they were best friends or mortal enemies, but in District Two, there was little difference. Then the verbal quarrel transitioned into an unfettered fist-fight, each boy wrestling the other to the ground and throwing unmerciful punches.

Cole's stomach churned at the sight of blood. He looked away and looped around the fighting careers, rejoining the line. Asa followed at Cole's heels, mouth agape as he watched the boys.

"Did you see that, Cole?" he asked, in a voice that suggested he just witnessed an alien abduction. "Did you _see_ that?"

The blonde grimaced, but didn't look back. "Unfortunately."

Asa clung to Cole's arm like a child keeping close to his parent. But he didn't take his inquiring eyes off the fist-fight that had since gained an enthusiastic crowd. "Cole, can you fight?"

"Ehh…" Cole felt uneasy. "No, not really. Haven't you seen me, um, 'fight' at school? I'm not interested in hurting other people."

"Oh," Asa said, eyes still fixed. "M-me neither. You're like a good guy, not a fighter."

"Hmm. I'm a lover, not a fighter?"

"That's it," the twelve year old answered. "You're one of the good guys."

"Yeah, the good guys," Cole repeated, his eyeshot far from the brawl. The _whump_ of unabated punches bade him look forward.

Asa bumped into Cole from behind as the line halted. He alarmingly looked up at his blonde-haired friend, watching him extend his index finger for DNA registration. A bitter-looking woman snatched Cole's wrist like a penny on the ground, pricking his finger and telling him to join the boys his age. Asa received similar treatment, his expression sour as he caressed his throbbing finger.

"See you later?" the young boy asked hopefully.

Cole offered a faint smile. "Of course. And…um, we can go to the library, like you said. To read that book you're all excited about. Sound good?"

"Yeah!" Asa scampered away in good spirits, finding the other twelve year olds.

Cole joined his appropriate age group and stood awkwardly among his taller and stronger peers, feeling decidedly out of place. Perhaps, he hoped, during the stampeding frenzy of male volunteers, he might get trampled underfoot and never need to relive this humility.

A boy from behind shoved him. "Why don't you volunteer, Princess?"

Cole didn't turn around. He heard another boy snicker and mutter, "Nah, let him go home and play with his dollhouse. If his mom can afford one."

Cole's skin was blistering with repressed rage: "Princess" was just a familiar nuisance of a juvenile nickname, but insults gaged toward his mother filled him with a deep-rooted, visceral frustration. Still, he didn't turn around.

The grating voice of the first boy yelled, "Hey, we're _talking_ to you." He shoved Cole again, his fat fingers abrasively pinching Cole's back. The rebel flung forward like a rag-doll, falling to his knees and scraping them hard against the gravel.

" _Haaaa!_ " the boy cackled as Cole dusted off his outfit, the second time that afternoon. The blonde shot the larger, slightly pudgy boy an unyielding glare. But he remained voiceless and turned away from his aggressor, his temporary vow of silence magnifying his undeterred stance.

"Hey!" the pudgy boy said, growing impatient with Cole's seeming repellence to his insults. "Hey, look at me!" He prepped his hands for another shove, crouching like a tiger stalking it's prey.

" _Welcome_ , _welcome_ , to the 311th Annual Hunger Games!" A booming, amplified voice hushed all chit-chat and movement. Cole noticed a thick, nose-prickling dust settling over the entire scene like a musty blanket. "My name is Amina Starr, your District Two escort." The short woman's introduction was evocative of a queen's—dramatic pauses in speech, and her arm's spread wide at the sound of her own name. Cole had long since recognized the woman's well-adored English accent and unconcealed vanity: Amina Starr had been the District Two escort for seven years.

"To the right of me is your _more_ than able-bodied mentor—" she ruffled her curly green hair and gave a flirtatious wink to the black-haired victor—"Mr. Chromius Ashe! Winner of the 300th Annual Hunger Games!" The crowd erupted in a flurry of hoots and hollers. Males young and old whooped buoyantly for the man whose destiny they eagerly wanted to replicate, while females cooled themselves using imaginary fans, enamored with the sight of the handsome, perfectly-chiseled Adonis of a man. Cole caught a glimpse of his sister through the commotion, watching as she rolled her eyes and wrung out her hands in flagrant disinterest.

Amina Starr pulled her cherry-red lips into a thin smile. When the acclamation subsided, she continued reading from her pre-constructed script. "Over three hundred years ago, the people of Panem defied their Capitol. In place of this defiance, the Hunger Games were instilled, issuing un _ending_ complaints from the other districts. But to you I ask, you bright young boys and girls: which district was the _first_ to welcome the Hunger Games with open arms?"

A chorus of self-praise swelled within the crowd. Cole speculated whether even a single career had the intelligence to answer Amina's question with a response wasn't reminiscent of a barbaric war cry. He stretched his elastic outfit near the neckline, desperately inviting any stray breeze to keep him cool.

" _Indeed!_ " Ms. Starr concurred. "We are the _future_ of Panem! We are the leaders! We are the fighters! We are the intelligence! We are the _handsomest_ and _prettiest_ district!" Cole wondered if she included that unscripted last line for good measure, a self-referential statement to curb her appetite for flattery.

"Panem doesn't need it's _liars_ and its _rebels_. What good are those who struggle against our Capitol? What good are the districts that defy us, each and every day?" Cole wanted to mention that "the districts that defy us" were more than necessary to keep the economy even half-stable, but he opted to maintain his obstinate silence.

"Do we _need_ these _nuisances_?" Amina asked, placing her characteristic emphasis on whichever arbitrary words she deemed important. "Does District Two _deserve_ to live in a country full of rebels, whose allegiance is pledged _far_ from our Capitol?" True emotion began to surface, her face hot and straining. "Do _we_ deserve this?!"

A collective chant of disapproval surged through town square, careening off unseen obstacles and dispelling in a low rumble. Careers muttered and cursed rebel names, as though a windy gale could carry their insults to the last house in Panem. Cole rubbed the back of his neck. He stared intently at the ground, avoiding the wave of vindication that swept through the mob of angry teens.

"No, we don't deserve this! _District Two_ does _not_ deserve this!" Amina proclaimed, curbing an imminent round of applause with a quick tsk. "We don't—and never will—deserve to live in fear of these rebels!"

Cole thought her words were laced with hypocrisy.

"Do you see this?" Amina pointed to the largest television screen responsible for broadcasting the reapings Panem-wide. "This is what victors look like. This is what _true_ Panem looks like!" An uproarious round of applause flared through the crowd at her feet. Amina Starr grinned sinisterly, her face resembling plastic beneath her cosmetics.

The woman removed the microphone from its metal grasp and walked freely into center stage. Her height was no longer disproportioned by the podium, making her elevated position feel drastically more imperious. Cole swallowed his nerves and flexed his shaking fingers.

The escort stopped in front of two glass bowls, which were brim-full with thousands of paper slips. _Seven times_ , Cole reminded himself, _seven chances._

"Let us begin the ceremony by selecting one male and one female to represent District Two in this year's Hunger Games. And, may the odds be _ever_ in your favor…" Amina's golden eyes rested on the glass bowl to her left. "Ladies first."

Cole peered through the crowd, looking for his sister; he didn't see her.

Amina hovered her arm over the glass bowl for several seconds, sweeping her hand in a circle as though trying to conjure a specific name. Then she delved her arm into the sea of papers, fervidly snatching a name near the bottom of the bowl . She reeled back and held her hand in midair for what seemed like frozen perpetuity, displaying a folded slip of paper between her fingers. In that moment, Cole was certain he could hear a pin drop on farthest reach of Panem.

The escort pressed the paper to her heart. Eyes fastened on the stage, every career girl crouched into a run-ready position, digging their shoes against the gravel for stability.

Amina unfolded the paper and glimpsed down, her fake eyelashes a canopy over her veiled eyes. Cole felt the pressure of Amina's dramatic prelude fall heavy onto his tensed shoulders, and for a incalculable moment, the entire world stood still like a film paused mid-way.

" _Jadelyn Spera_."

No one had called her _Jadelyn_ in a long time.

And like bulls pursuing a red-shirted matador, hundreds of career girls darted for the stage—for _Amina_. They were toppling over each other in earnest dedication, drawing up dirt from the gravelly Earth into a noxious cloud. Iterations of "I volunteer!" spread like wildfire, each career desperate to accept Jadelyn Spera's place in the Hunger Games.

Cole's head was swimming; he buried his face in his hands and shut his eyes, trying to calm his overwrought nerves. In his mind manifested Amina Starr's taunting powdered face; and ringing through his ears, jeering repetitions of his sister's name—"Jadelyn Spera, Jadelyn Spera,"—replaced the flood of loud-mouthed career girls swarming onstage. A single tear crept down his cheek, a glinting scar visible only from a precise angle.

Onstage, Amina waved her hands frantically through the air, trying to suppress the storm of feverish careers. Several girls were already mounting the stage in tangled heaps of sweat and dirt. " _Stop!_ _Stop it!"_ Amina screeched. It took several seconds for the girls to abruptly halt, bemused expressions replacing their once-hellbent visages. "Stop! Just, stop…thank you. Girls, please, exit the stage. You see, this year, things are different. The Capitol has issued a _new_ District Two policy. We don't need other people to fight our battles for us—no! We don't need our friends to _volunteer_ for us. District Two is the _greatest_ district of Panem, and District Two is the home of the _greatest_ careers of Panem! So let her come—this Jadelyn Spera—and take what is rightfully hers!"

Amina's enthusiastic speech was received with a shared groan. Mutters of disappointment quickly escalated into a chant of retribution. From the stage, Ms. Starr waved away the malicious insults like nettlesome mosquitoes. "Look! Our female tribute emerges! Let us celebrate her arrival!"

Cole's eyes scanned the televisions. On each screen, the camera dizzily panned through the crowd of females in search for the one in question. And when the camera stopped, there was a small clearing with a single girl in the center.

Cole's knees quivered, lifeless and barely supporting his weight. The feeling spread to his stomach, making him sick; and from his stomach to his heart, which pulsated so hard that it throbbed; and from his heart, rising through his chest and across his aching, tense shoulders, until it clogged his throat, a choking lump that distended his lungs and summoned a rainfall of steaming tears.

He gasped and sobbed, unafraid of crying in public.

The blonde watched the screen through blurry-eyed vision. His sister's expression was innocent and downcast, black hair shielding her pale face. Shaky hands clung tightly to the frills of her pink dress, and her lips moved faintly as if whispering something. The other girls' scowls were like lasers on her skin as she shuffled uncomfortably with slow, trepidatious steps.

Then he saw her onstage, beside Amina. He saw the _real_ Jade. Not the televised, pixelated version, but the _real_ Jade.

Cole desperately cried out her name, but his voice was so weak that it cracked and faded like a fragile squeal.

"Welcome, welcome! Jadelyn Spera, our new District Two female career!" Amina held Jade's hand high in the air. The escort was beaming while Jade struggled to keep her emotions restrained. "Jadelyn, what do you have to say to the crowd?"

Jade flinched and jerked back as the microphone was shoved under her lips. She skimmed the outskirts of the adult crowd: there was Lisa weeping hysterically, cursing the Captiol's name as a Peacekeeper spitefully hushed her. Turning to face Amina, Jade simply shook her head, unwilling to speak.

"My, my, a quiet one, are we?" Amina drew her lips into a thin, displeased line. "Well, I'm sure you will be the great _heroine_ of the arena and capture all of Panem's hearts!" The escort laughed at herself, her voice neurotic as the animosity of the crowd grew heavier. No one applauded for Jade.

"Moving along then!" Amina paused in front of the second glass bowl. The crowd's anticipation had since evaporated, the indifferent males lividly folding their arms or stuffing their pockets with coarse, ready-for-action hands.

The escort immediately plucked out the first paper she saw, abandoning all drama. As she glimpsed at the name, a sinister, crocodile grin carved itself in place of her normally-pursed lips. "The Hunger Games are truly _, truly_ amazing. For centuries they've saved families—bringing mothers and fathers and daughters and sons closer together. Maybe to the other districts it seems unfair, but really, we _are_ saving families." She needlessly prefaced the reveal of the male tribute. It was clear she no longer recited from a script, but now formed words on a whim. These words stuck in everyone's minds like sap to a tree, regaining the attention of those who lost interest.

"But today, by the very fates of chance, we _are_ ruining families." An infinite pause lingered in her speech.

"Welcome, welcome… _Cole Spera_."

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** What's up with no D2 volunteers? Jade _and_ Cole getting reaped?

* * *

 **Tribute List  
**

* * *

Make sure your tribute's name, age, district, and submission status is correct! If you have yet to finish or submit your tribute, you still have about 1 week to do so. _finalized = full application sent ; partial submission = only parts of application sent ; reserved = reserved, no information yet sent_

 **District 1 Male -** Jean Trent, 18 ; _Hunterfields_ (status: finalized)

 **District 1 Female -** Ambrosia (Rose) Rubie, 17 ; _cloudy5_ (status: finalized)

 **District 2 Male -** Cole Spera, 16 ; _PisuLuckee_ (status: finalized)

 **District 2 Female -** Jadelyn (Jade) Spera, 14 ; _PisuLuckee_ (status: finalized)

 **District 3 Male -** Destin Tames, 16 ; _T1nyDanc3r_ (status: finalized)

 **District 3 Female -** Annie Wickham, 16 ; _YesmyLordCiel_ (status: partial submission)

 **District 4 Male -** Andrew (Sandy) Chip, 18 ; _Dumbo123_ (status: finalized)

 **District 4 Female -** Jayleigh (Jay) Llyr, 17 ; _JadeRavenstone_ (status: finalized)

 **District 5 Male -** Byren Sauvy, 15 ; _YoshiMaster736_ (status: finalized)

 **District 5 Female -** Fia Thame, 15 ; _ElliiLouise_ (status: finalized)

 **District 6 Male -** Hydan Olser, 17 ; _trinityxslayer_ (status: finalized)

 **District 6 Female -** Jade (Poison) Hemlock, 14 ; _Dr. camfiction_ (status: finalized)

 **District 7 Male -** Heracles Kaizer, 15 ; _Lupus of ooo_ (status: finalized)

 **District 7 Female -** Sierra Kyles, 17 ; _yes-it-is-me360_ (status: finalized)

 **District 8 Male -** Lezar Murnon, 13 ; _DashSputnik_ (status: finalized)

 **District 8 Female -** Arabella Thimble, 18 ; _Just-Your-Ordinary-Author_ (status: finalized)

 **District 9 Male -** Willow Sanders, 18 ; _epictomguy_ (status: partial submission?)

 **District 9 Female -** Olivia (Oliver) Glassow, 14 ; _Atashi Desu_ (status: finalized)

 **District 10 Male -** Kieson Dove, 18 ; _AnnieTreasure_ (status: finalized)

 **District 10 Female -** Josaline (Josie) Tanner, 14 ; _Mystical Pine Forest_ (status: finalized)

 **District 11 Male -** pending ; _QueenOfCas_ (status: reserved)

 **District 11 Female -** pending ; _PisuLuckee_ (status: reserved)

 **District 12 Male -** Roopertutino (Rooper), 18 ; _ghostleon_ (status: finalized)

 **District 12 Female -** Aryanna (Arya) Golding, 16 ; _xQueen-Of-Applesx_ (status: partial submission)

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thanks for reading! Hopefully all that information is correct and you enjoyed the chapter!


	5. Heavy Silence

**Author's Note:** Woop, chapter 5! This chapter was quite a trip, and I made a special effort just to make sure I got it posted tonight. Anyway, this is the final chapter before we step away from Cole and Jade for a little while and explore another facet of Panem. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

 **Heavy Silence**

* * *

 _The probability was astronomical._

Cole's arms dangled like weary noodles. His mouth hung fully agape, wide eyes glossed with disbelief. The entire scene felt otherworldly, like that of a nightmare—a nightmare within a nightmare, a convoluted web of horrifying dreams, a circular misery from which he could never escape. But any nightmare was better than this chasm of ominous reality.

From every corner of the plaza he heard muffled, demeaning whispers trickling from the lips of his fellow careers. Murderous sneers were strewn across their faces like contemptuous grins. But what drew his attention were the bloodcurdling screeches from Jade and Amina onstage.

Jade had thrown herself to her knees. " _This isn't fair! You can't do this to us!"_ She was berserk, flailing her arms wildly as though drowning. " _The Capitol is just a bunch of no-good murderers! You_ can't! _You can't do this to us!_ "

Amina was hunched at Jade's side, her once-prim attitude diminished behind an expression of pure wrath. "Get up!" she snarling like a rabid dog, her voice hushed to remain unheard. She threw down the microphone in a fit of desperate rage. "Get up, you little _bitch!_ You're making your district look bad! You're making… _me_ look bad!"

Cole couldn't decipher their verbal battle, but the sight of Jade's sob-choked face shook the numbness out of his arms and legs. Without thinking, he hastily scrambled to the stage, narrowly clipping careers who sidestepped out of his way.

Mounting the stairs, he saw Chromius watching him with a hawk-eye stare, a hunter scrutinizing a piece of meat. _Hopeless, naive meat_ , Cole thought in self-pity.

"Jade!" he yelled, the muscles in his throat contracting where cries interrupted. "Jade, come here—" He rushed to his sister, pushing past a red-faced Amina with shameless disregard. "Jade, I'm here for you now. I'm here."

Having witnessed enough of the despairing family reunion, the escort turned to the crowd and dismissively waved her hands, as though saying "nothing interesting to see".

"I'm _here_ for you, Jade. I'm here."

"You seem like a talkative one," Amina acknowledged, listening to Cole's whimpers and heartfelt solace. She retrieved the microphone from the ground and offered it to the boy's chin, the lines on her face hardening with restive irritation. "Go on," she insisted. "Talk to your district. You're the male tribute—tell the crowd how happy you are!"

Cole could hardly determine if she was venomously sarcastic or stupidly optimistic. He assumed the former; Amina was overly prideful like all Capitol citizens—a mere robot prescribed a Capitol-revering mind—but she was a rare breed of automata, who retained a significant shred of her free will. For this reason alone, she was convincingly dangerous in Cole's analytic eyes.

"I'm _not_ happy. I'm not happy with this at all. I don't want to be here" the boy said, leaning into the microphone to ensure his voice projected to the far limits of District Two. If he was going to die at the cruel hand of the Capitol, he wanted to confirm that it was not by choice or delight.

Tainted by the collective _boo_ of the crowd, Amina switched off the microphone and shot Cole a threatening glower. Her eyes flickered with fiery revulsion as she put her back to the audience and shouted, "Are you _stupid_ , child? These careers will tear you apart for saying something like that. Look at them!" Without turning around, she outstretched a taut, pointing arm toward the anarchic crowd. "You think they want to hear their male tribute tell them that he doesn't give a shit about the games? You think you can just walk around, acting like an entitled, rebellious _scum_? Most of them would give their _lives_ to be up here, and you have the nerve to complain about your good fortune?!"

Like a match-induced firestorm, the crowd sparked a tumultuous uproar. Careers of all ages meshed their voices into a rioting chant, condemning Cole for his traitorous three-sentence speech. Some of the more unruly careers began unprovoked fist-fights, like caged animals gone insane by their pent-up yearning for violence. Even the families of the tributes—parents, grandparents, and toddlers alike—swallowed town square with their own harmonized insurrection.

Amina waved direly at a Peacekeeper near the base of the stage. "Get our tributes to the Justice Building unharmed," she said when the Peackeeper joined her. Then she added in a low hiss, "And tell the cameraman to stop his filming. _No one_ should be seeing District Two like this."

Cole was dragged ungently by the arm, his sister resisting but eventually surrendering to similar treatment. The two tributes were led through the torrent of ear-ringing yells, their Peacekeeper guard protecting them from any stray, rage-triggered punches.

Before getting shoved into the Peacekeeper's vehicle, Cole saw the image of a blonde, weeping woman screaming for the mercy of her two children.

The Justice Building of District Two was a grand, dome-topped legal affairs house of Capitolian proportions. Its hemispheric roof was entirely glass, while the floors beneath were caked inside and out with purified marble. Cole had set foot inside only twice before—to retrieve tesserae—but even then he was only granted access to a few stuffy rooms of the labyrinthine structure.

Today was nothing different. The Peacekeeper ushered them to a room on the third floor of the building, remaining silent save for a few unpleasant grunts.

Before setting off to the Capitol, Cole and Jade would be granted one final opportunity to part with their friends and family. Typically, the male and female tributes were escorted to separate rooms, but in this case, "It makes it real easy for us," the Peacekeeper had said, before shutting the siblings behind a closed, noisy door.

Jade instantly tried the doorknob. "It's locked. He locked us in here!" She kicked at the door, shrieking with inarticulate screeches and yells. Cole didn't need to see her quavering face to realize she was crying.

"Of course he did," Cole muttered hopelessly, sitting on a wooden chair. "He's a Peacekeeper and we're rebels. They're not gonna make it that easy for us to escape." His voice was so pitiable his sister stopped her thrashing, resting her forehead against the door in exhaustion.

Jade puffed her thin cheeks before releasing a lengthy, exasperated sigh. "It's not like it's _our_ fault," she said through choppy breaths. She was still turned away. "That man doesn't deserve an excuse. I hate him, I hate all of them. Amina, I _hate_ her more than any of them."

Though Cole was inclined to agree, he felt no urge to find his voice and string together meaningless words. His head was down and his body unmoving. Without looking up, he spread his palms flimsily as if to say "it doesn't matter now".

Jade turned around and gently eased her back against the door. It hurt to cry. It hurt to speak. It even hurt to think. She closed her eyes, wishing the enveloping darkness would transport her to an entirely different world—a utopian, paradisal tranquility where "career" maintained its former definition of "occupation".

Cole noticed the redness of her face, coupled with fractured streams of dried tears frozen across her cheeks. Then she choked on a lump in her throat and cried out, "We're going to die, y-you know! We're not going to make it out alive. This is where it ends for us! W-we're…Mom's gonna be all alone. A-and…" She buried her face in her palms, no longer withholding the deluge of tears that squeezed out of her still-closed eyes.

Cole stood and approached her. Without saying a word, he rested her head on his shoulder—she needed someone to cry on, even if he was far from a hero. And then he hugged her, feeling her racing heartbeat thumping against his chest. "Mom's not gonna be alone. Because…we're gonna come back to her. And we're going to live in the Victor's Village together. And never have to worry about anything for the rest of our lives. And we'll be happy, and Mom will be happy, and…" He was crying, too.

For a few seconds the siblings wept as one, their mourning amplified by the occasional choke or gasp. Then Jade removed her head from Cole's shoulder and rubbed her eyes, laughing at herself in light of their situation. "I'm such a mess today. What's wrong with me? This is like…the _third_ time I've broken down. Don't you dare tell _anyone_ about this." She laughed away several more fugitive tears and dried her cheeks, the flood concluded.

Cole burned a bashful red, embarrassed he cried so easily in front of his sister. He took a deep, stabilizing breath and laughed. "Heh—it's fine, I see you cry all the time. You're my sister."

Jade smiled as though concealing a secret. "I see you cry a lot, too."

"Really?—"

The door opened, narrowly gliding past Jade as she scuttled out of the way.

"Train leaves in thirty minutes," said a gruff, monotone voice outside the room. "So be done in fifteen." Jade's curiosity was piqued as she squinted around the half-opened door, but Cole's attention lingered elsewhere as he contemplated his sister's familiarity with his crying.

"There are my babies…"

Lisa Spera rushed past the stone-figured Peacekeeper without uttering a "thank you". Behind her scurried Asa, whose gaze decidedly eluded that of the large man's guarding the room.

Lisa quickly shut the door behind the twelve year old. The room fell silent.

Everyone wanted to speak, but no one could.

Even when someone found the words, they remained reticent and motionless—as though their voices and human functionality had been banished into darkness by the invisible phantom named grief.

"I don't want my best friends to go."

At the trailing edge of Asa's soft, tortured words, Lisa plummeted into a down-spiral of hoarse sobs and shaky contortions. Her lifeless body convulsed as she wrenched to restrain a cascade of tears. Her wails became full-voice chokes, as though sorrow constricted her throat. And her blonde hair, though regularly unkept, was now strewn in odd directions as though she had just recovered from a fist-fight.

Cole rushed to his mother's aid—Jade at his heels—to place a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. Then his menial gesture of amity blossomed into a full embrace, and for several seconds the Spera family held each other, shoulders and arms linked. They said nothing, but in those moments their hearts communicated the only three-word message needed for comfort.

Asa stood idly, silent but invested in their earnest lamentation. His normally colorless face was bathed in a tender shade of red, and his eyes still burned and puffed from the miserable walk to the Justice Building.

"Asa," Cole said, releasing his family's hug. He wasn't crying, but his voice was riddled with emotive inflections. "I just wanted to thank you for coming to see us. You don't know how much this means to me—to have you here to say goodbye. It's, um…err, it's just really nice of you." He remembered the cold, lazy afternoons when his daydreams had been plagued by mental reenactments of the Hunger Games, horrific reveries no more welcome than infesting bacteria. He remembered the nightmares from which he had awoken—sweating and panting—afraid that his echoing, amplified name ringing through the dust of town square was a foretelling portent of the reapings. He remembered watching the District Two male tribute each year, wondering what horrors an invitation to death must have evoked. And he remembered that in none of these chilling memories did a true friend visit him at the Justice Building.

Cole hugged Asa. "You're the best friend a person could ask for. Please…even while I'm gone, don't let District Two change you. It _needs_ a person like you. Oh— _gah,_ oh please, oh please. So, um…thank you again…I-I really will miss you…"

The room fell silent, but the atmosphere was different. Lisa choked back her final sob, unknotting the web of tension in her nerves. "Oh Asa, you're such a sweetheart," she said, her words surprisingly intelligible, "You know, little Asa insisted on coming to say goodbye to you, Cole. And you too, Jade." Lisa nodded toward her daughter, whose expression faltered with sudden guilt.

"Oh—yeah, about that. I'm sorry I yelled at you before the reapings. I'm sorry I blamed you for what happened. I was just _really_ stressed." Jade didn't mention their encounter with Lance, for fear her mother would retreat to an unhinged state of depression.

Asa merely laughed, and already the mood felt lighter. "You already apologized! I promise, it's okay. I still love you as my second best friend!"

Lisa was suddenly a different woman. "Such a sweetie! Cole, why didn't you tell me you had such nice friends?"

Cole rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh, well…I—err—"

Asa cut in, "Aww, no, it's okay! I'm not _really_ a sweetie. And I guess I'm still a career, so that kind of makes me like a bad guy, right? But no, Cole is so nice. He's my best best friend, Mrs. Spera. And I promise your family's secret is safe with me…Cole told me all about your situation." He bobbed his head when he spoke the last word, silently alluding to their don't-talk-about-it-in-public "situation".

"Clearly you've made room for my son and daughter in that sweet little heart of yours. I'm happy my children are making friends, and you don't seem like a normal career. So thank you, honey."

Asa repressed an enthusiastic smile, nodding childishly with his lips tightly sealed.

Then the door opened again, shadowed by the characteristically bland voice of their unsavory Peacekeeper guard. "Make it quick, kids. Hurry up and say goodbye. The train don't wait for no one."

Three bodies shuffled through the doorway single-file. _Three more visitors_ , Cole realized. Visitors? _Friends?_ But who? "Gino? And Trace?" The blonde regarded his fellow classmates with miraculous, wide-eyed awe. What were they doing there?

Likewise, Jade spotted a short, bubbly girl behind the two other visitors. "Polarie, I didn't think I'd get to see you!" She clasped her hands together as though mimicking the graces of a well-mannered princess.

"Oh, of _course_ you would get to see me," Polarie said, dragging out her vowels. She ran a delicate finger through her curly orange hair, then offered Jade a quick hug. "I wanted to get here sooner, but I couldn't find _any_ dress that looked good. And all that dust at town square just _completely_ wrecked my make-up."

Cole wanted to ask why her make-up was remarkably susceptible to ruination by dust particles, but the rebel's and the rich girl's senses of humor customarily diverged; he remained quiet, instead centering his attention on Gino and Trace.

Trace piped up, " _Dude_ , you're in the Hunger Games, man. That's like—a total dream of mine, you know? I hate to steal your thunder, but—" he jabbed Cole with a few friendly punches, having difficulty standing still—"I'm pretty jealous, man. You totally pumped, or what?"

Trace's words hardened Cole's wince, but he disguised his torment with a fake cough. "Um…yeah! It's…pretty exciting, right? I guess I have some big shoes to fill, being the career and all." He glanced at Jade for moral support, but she was occupied with Polarie's incessant rambling, something about the "wallet-breaking" price of her glittery shoes. "Too bad you couldn't volunteer for me. Then I guess you're dream would've come true, right?" Cole added, attempting to drive the disfunctional conversation.

Since the reapings, events had blinked by like an accelerated, hallucinant film. And in this typhoon of evanescent happenings, Cole barely had any time to collect and reorder his thoughts: why _weren't_ volunteers allowed? Amina Starr had justified the reasoning, but even her justification felt artificial and unequivocally nonsensical.

Gino's deep voice shattered Cole's trance. "This was my last damn year to get reaped, and I couldn't even volunteer. Some shitty timing, huh?" The eighteen year old shifted his square, concrete jaw. "That's some stupid shit if you ask me. What the hell is up with that?"

"Amina told us, remember?" Asa answered his partially-rhetorical question with a goofy smile.

"Yeah, man," Trace said, as though it were obvious. "Remember?"

"Yes, you idiot, I remember what she said." Gino shot a nasty glare at his smart-ass, energetic friend. "But that doesn't tell me why they decided to pull some irrelevant shit like this—this year of all years."

Lisa observed the boys with calculative gears wheeling in her brain. Somewhere between Gino's excessive verbal profanity and Trace's mischievous grin did her attention begin to wane, where deep thought overtook acute listening.

Trace shrugged and sidled over to Gino, his eyes sly and twinkling, his dimpled, twisted mouth redolent of Caroll's Cheshire cat. "Maybe the President and all her people took a long coffee break one day and decided that they wanted to sabotage you. A whole big conspiracy, you know? A plot to ruin your life by keeping you out of the games…you think?"

 _A plot to ruin your life…_

"Alright, shut up! You are _not funny,_ asshole. Now I'll never get my fame in that stupid arena. I'm serious about this and you're making a joke out of it!" Gino shoved the taller boy squarely in the chest, fuming like hot steam emitting from a boiling pipe. His short-lived expression of violence seemed to quell the apex of his temper, his entire mood lifted with an air of realized compensation. "Whatever, at least Cole gets to achieve my fame and glory for me. Makes me feel a little better about this shitty new volunteering rule."

Trace prodded Gino further, grinning like a mad scientist whose abominable creation had come to life after many laborious hours of dedicated work. "Dude, it's not like you're 'living vicariously through Cole'. So what if he's in the games? It still means that you're just gonna be sitting your ass down at home on your couch with the rest of your family, watching him on your TV and—"

"I said _shut up!_ "

"Or you'll shove me again?" Trace mimicked Gino's enraged facial expressions, laughing. The older boy didn't look amused.

"No—I'll kick you in that stupid face of yours."

"Like your tubby legs could even reach that far."

"You'd be surprised, jackass."

"Dude, you think you're the only career who missed his chance out there because the Capitol decided to pull this crap?"

"Well, I think I'm the only one tough enough to admit he gives a shit, yes."

"Well said."

"I know. I'm still gonna kick your ass, though."

The longer Cole listened to his bickering classmates—in true third-wheel fashion—the quicker he felt glaringly inapt and out of place. Gino was a rock-solid, self-proclaimed killer—humorously short, but bullishly muscular where his height lacked. And Trace was insurmountably tall, weaker than his older cohort, but no less a physical marvel. Both boys regularly found themselves in after-school bouts, glorified by onlookers chanting their names as they painted their fists red with each victim's blood. And stirring their brutish personalities into the ever-growing bowl of infinite differences, Cole realized that his pacifistic nature was nothing but foreign to these "friends".

Paranoia overwhelmed him—shook him and perturbed him. Were they even his friends? He would have dubbed them something else—a name less hospitable and harmonious, not an "I'll go to the grave for you" name that existed only in the purity of a _true_ friend.

"But dude, don't you think we ought to tell him?"

Cole smashed the cloaked, tinted glass behind which his thoughts were hidden, his attention regained. "T-Tell me? Tell me what? What have you ought to tell me?" He looked at Trace defensively, his voice unexpectedly sharp and callous, but mostly stressed.

"Nothing, man. It's just about the mentor this year. You know, that big Chromius guy."

"My brother knows him," Gino cut in, his tone flatter and less playful than Trace's. "Apparently the guy's a real dick, even for a victor. Word is, you need to get on his good side, and fast."

"Cole can do that!" Asa exclaimed, sitting now, his feet barely scraping the floor. "Cole's real good at that. He's real good at getting people to like him."

"Damn right," Trace firmly agreed. "Cole's an all-around nice guy. Definitely victor material."

Cole's heart swelled with flattery, but he refrained from spotlighting his sappy emotions.

The boys fell silent. Cole glanced at his sister. Jade was half-heartedly engaged in a one-sided conversation with Polarie. The rich girl chattered endlessly about how spoiled she was, sparing no vanity for her blatantly disinterested listener—"I can only handle her in small doses" Jade would say behind Polarie's luxuriously-clothed back.

The door pointedly swung open, whacking Trace in the knee. " _Dude!_ "

The surly Peacekeeper stood in the doorway, seemingly impervious to everyone's malevolent stares. "Your visitors gotta leave soon."

"How soon is 'soon'?" Jade pressed.

"Soon means soon. And that's when your friends gotta leave," the Peacekeeper said, deliberately perverse. Then he closed the door with a jarring, heart-fluttering thud.

Jade frowned and muttered something incoherent. The stuffy room, punctuated with the Peacekeeper's poorly-timed interruptions, eradicated any atmosphere conducive to a sincere goodbye.

"You better stay strong, girl," Polarie said to Jade, sifting through her purse. "Here, I brought you this from home. It isn't much, but I promise it's really expensive, and it'll look amazing on you." She produced a tube of deep red lipstick, pinching it between two unblemished fingers. "I want you looking stylish out there. I bet you'll be the most beautiful girl in the arena."

"Oh, Polarie…thank you for remembering me. This gift actually means a lot. A whole lot, so thank you." Jade willed herself to resist another gush of nearly-emerged tears.

"Hey man, she's not the only one with gifts!" Trace said. "Look here, guys. Take a fine gander at these." He and Gino concurrently revealed shiny, steel-handled daggers. "When we heard your name get called, we ran home and got you these sick blades—don't worry, man, you're not imposing. We have dozens of these, we can spare a few."

"Trace wanted to give you the stilettos—"

"Yeah man, 'cause they're _longer!_ "

"But I promise you, these daggers cut _deep_. They're well made. They'll do the job right."

"Here, Cole," Trace said, eagerly extending his dagger-clutching hand. The blonde slowly rose his palms, cupping them as though trying to catch rain. Trace plopped the dagger on the tips of Cole's fingers, watching the boy fumble for a few seconds before grasping it firmly by the cold hilt.

The deadly object felt foreign in his hands. Cole's stiff grip did not demonstrate weaponry prowess, but an apprehensive inexperience, as though he were afraid his own clumsy fingers might betray him and deliver a piercing stab at his heart. The boy saw his distorted reflection in the blade of the dagger and frowned; he looked fatigued and vulnerable.

"And one for you." Gino handed Jade her respective unfamiliar weapon.

"But…who are we killing with these? Surely we can't take them into the arena," Jade said, her statement enunciated like a question.

"Nah—but you can use them in the training room, man," Trace piped up. "Gotta be better than the…the _garden variety_ blades the Capitol would let you practice with. And if not—well—they sure look good, don't they, dudes?"

Cole wasn't sure how to distinguish a quality dagger from a "garden variety" one, so he simply smiled. "Thank you, guys, for thinking about us. I, um, I can't thank you enough. I'm sure these will come in handy."

"Not a problem, dude!"

Lisa snapped out of her stupor, blinking rapidly with a heedless, out-of-place expression as she drifted into the reality of the conversation. She didn't have time to acknowledge Trace's goofy smile or Gino's dull, perpetual glare. Her mind, like an unwavering conveyor belt reserved strictly for notions deemed important, disregarded their hateful bloodlust, or their obvious affiliation with District Two's typical savage careers. She curtly said, "Thank you everyone for your gifts. So very sweet of you to show your kindness like this, to show my children that you truly care." She spoke in a faraway voice, and her eyes widened with each dreamy, toneless syllable. "Please, if you'll excuse us. It's getting late, and I'd like to say goodbye to my babies one last time."

 _One last time_. Those words echoed through Cole's mind like a booming yell in a hollow, reverberative cave. _One last time._ Was she hopelessly condemning them? Didn't she carry a fragment of hope within each beating pulse of her heart? Was this why she acted so distant, her eyes so evasive? Cole wanted to regard her comment as an ordinary bout of insanity, but he feared this was far more dangerous.

"Yeah, it's not a problem!" Trace grinned. "We'll give you you're space, Miss—Mrs. Spera! And Cole, good luck to ya."

Cole expected Trace to adorn his luck-wishing with a trademark "dude"; but rather, his expressive verbalism was shelved as he smothered the blonde in a backbreaking bro-hug. "See ya!"

"Yeah, good luck out there." Gino nodded his head as though giving a readied affirmative, preferring to avoid physical show-of-emotion contact. "Remember: Chromius is a _dickhead_." And then he chuckled, joining Trace as they left the room.

"See ya…" Cole's voice was faint and diminished, and most likely inaudible by the time he squeaked out the words. Trace and Gino were gone, and he would probably never see them again.

"Goodbye, Jade." Polarie's embrace was dainty, a painless contrast to Trace's sturdy bear-hug. "I _will_ be seeing you again, wearing that snazzy lipstick back here at home. It won't be long, trust me." Then Polarie was gone too, and the room felt darker—lonelier.

"Cole?"

"Yeah, Asa?"

"I…I really wanted to show you that book at the library. The one I told you about before?"

Cole grimaced, rubbing the nape of his neck as though massaging pangs of guilt. "I'm so sorry about that. I'm _so_ sorry…I—I wanted to look at it with you. I really did. I…I'm sorry." He was sympathetic and genuine, as though placating a toddler.

"No, no! It's fine, it's real fine, okay?" Asa held up his hands in agreeable submission. "It's nothing big to worry about. The book was about Panem, and the districts, and the Captiol, and the people," he rambled loudly, a verbal spectacle. Lisa and Jade lent him their attention. "And there was even a part about the Hunger Games in there, too. And it said that the games were started because of…trust issues? Because the people betrayed tje Capitol, and the Capitol didn't _trust_ them no more. It said the people of Panem _need_ people the Capitol can trust…and, and…" Asa's eyes were watering. And then he croaked out a few shaky, stuttering words: "I-I'm so sorry it was you who got r-reaped."

Asa shambled over to Cole, head down—an abandoned puppy. Then he gave the older boy a warm, tear-splattered hug. Asa said nothing aside from his sporadic whimpers, finding no words to do his goodbye proper justice.

Then he released Cole, his eyes still shying away. He leaned into Jade with another amiable embrace, while the girl bid him goodbye with muted, shaky whispers. Cole watched silently, pushing away the enduring hand yearning to drag him to that dark world of gloom and emotional maladies.

Then Asa released Jade and wobbled over to the door. He looked so small against the looming, ceiling-high wooden frame—a mere ant in the Capitol's clockwork of complex schemes. The boy turned the knob and looked into the vast, near-vacant corridor that stretched on like a lonely, carless highway.

He turned and mouthed "goodbye" before shutting the door behind him. Asa, too, was gone.

The room was cold with familiar silence.

Lisa's expression was somber. Feeling a rising lump in her chest, she quickly leaned in and whispered, "There's something I need to give you. Read it when you're alone, when there's no one to see you." She slid an unwrinkled envelope from her purse and glided it nonchalantly to Cole's dagger-less hand.

"Can't you tell us now? Tell us what it says?" Jade asked.

"No," Lisa said, muffling her voice. "They have cameras everywhere. Take it, take it and read it when _no one_ is watching. I wanted to wait until you were older to tell you, but…" Her words deflated into a harrowing stillness.

Cole nodded; he understood.

Lisa retracted, straightening herself and speaking casually, albeit in a restless, quavery undertone. "Anyway, I also—I have something else for you both. I b-brought them from home." She ruffled through her purse with bony, trembling hands. "Where—where are they? I know I put them in here." She began searching more frantically, pulling the strap off her shoulder and holding the purse at her waist. " _Where are they?_ Where—I had them right here—!" Her hands were more fidgety now, the contents of her purse completely disheveled. " _Where are they?!_ " she cried out. Then she dropped the bag on the floor. Tears streamed down her face as she sank to her knees beside the clutter. " _I can't find them_ …"

Cole and Jade knelt instantly, beckoning gently to calm her feverish nerves. "It's okay!" Cole insisted. "Mom…Mom please…it's okay. We don't need anything. We just want to see you."

"Yeah, Mom," Jade encouraged. "Please, Mom. Please calm down."

But Lisa was beyond persuading. Sobbing, she cradled her children closer and buried her head in the crook of their shoulders. " _I'm sorry_ … _I'm so sorry_." Their faces were down, blurred gazes fixed on a tear-stained, flower-patterned carpet.

"Mom…" Jade offered, grasping at a handkerchief on the ground and extending it to her mother.

"There! You f-found them!" Lisa snatched the handkerchief in awe, her tears subsiding like a brutal storm at it's abrupt end. "Th-thank you. Sweetie, you found them!" She stood up, knees wobbling. Cole steadied her shoulder to ensure she maintained balance.

Lisa found a similar handkerchief folded neatly on the floor. She grabbed it desperately and clutched both fabrics safely to her chest. "I-I, oh babies. I'm so happy I have the chance to give these to you. When the two of you were born, your Dad _insisted_ we buy these handkerchiefs for you, as…as a little token of your birth."

Each piece of cloth was ornately embroidered with a respective name, Cole's in blue font and Jade's in red. They looked untouched, slightly withered at the edges from age, but otherwise in pristine condition. "When you were babies, and we had to wipe a tear from your eyes, we used these."

Lisa handed one to each child. The handkerchiefs felt like palm-sized clouds between their fingers, smooth and dustless. "I don't want you to feel alone. I don't want you to ever be scared in the arena. Just— _please_ —when you get on that train, whatever you do, open that envelope."

She put a motherly hand on her children's shoulders. In that moment, she didn't bawl uncontrollably or observe them through despondent, fear-ridden eyes. She didn't act unstable, or speak as though trapped behind the invisible glass of a vague, distant place.

She was speaking like a mother— _their_ mother. And in that moment, they felt safe in their mother's arms.

The door creaked open loudly, the grating sound of wood against carpet disturbing the serene quiet. "Time to go, kids. Mom, you're gonna have to leave now."

Lisa released a voiceless sigh, pulling her children close for a final goodbye hug.

But instead of letting go, she leaned in.

And she whispered, "Promise me that you will never believe what they tell you. _It was rigged_."

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** Trace, Gino, Polarie-who's your favorite? And what's that envelope all about?

 **Author's Note:** Just about wrapping up the opening chapters. I have one more non-Cole/Jade sequence to get to. And a lot of submissions to study! Let me know what you think, the games are closer than you can imagine!


	6. Among Us

**Author's Note:** Phew! Glad to finally post this-my classes just started this week, so I was pretty busy getting ready for that. Anyway, this chapter takes the fic in an entirely new direction for a little while. **Also** , throughout the fic it's very important to remember that the world you are reading occurs almost 250 years after the HG trilogy. You'll notice many changes to Panem's laws, technology, infrastructure, etc, that I will be introducing over the next chapters, and pretty much the rest of the chapters to come. Keep that in mind if you notice some oddities that don't 100% match up with the way Panem was almost 250 years ago.

 **SYOT Note:** I'm waiting for one more tribute to be fully submitted, but I can't get ahold of the tribute's creator. I'll continue to reserve their tribute (the District 11 Male) until I post Chapter 7. If at that point I still haven't heard from them, the District 11 Male spot will be open to anyone who wants to submit a tribute (who hasn't already submitted one). And if I can't find anyone new, I'll eventually let someone "double-up" on tributes.

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

 **Among Us**

* * *

 _Lamita Estate_

* * *

Lamita Estate stood impervious to the blustery gale and unabated rain. The Capitol's denizens were hunkered down indoors, save for the hapless man or woman caught outside by the unforeseen tempest.

The President's home persisted without affect, it's soundproof walls and lattice of maze-like inner rooms obscuring most signs of Mother Nature's aqueous wrath. The Estate was built in the center of the Capitol, upon a lofty grass hill—a rare spark of vegetation in the metropolitan city. The marble structure proudly overlooked the network of buildings below, an all-seeing watcher of grandiose proportions. Lamita Estate was an unconditional beacon of nationalistic pride for the ever-fascinated, ever-vain Capitolians.

Tangled within the structural behemoth were more than three hundred rooms, all refurbished with concordant Victorian-style decor—a wish requested by and promptly executed for the President. Day and night the Captiol's best architects and builders were stationed on-site at the mansion, ceaselessly expanding the marble colossus above struggling columns. "Luxury, and the finest things in life, should have no limit," Amethyst Lamita had said with a wave of her jeweled hand.

"Is _that_ what your mother said?" A woman with short red hair palmed her face, gripping a half-empty bottle of the Capitol's finest wine in her other hand. She took a swig of the drink and lethargically plopped it back on the kitchen counter. "Hell, I get lost in this damn place enough as it is."

The teenage girl at the kitchen table shifted uncomfortably in her seat, straightening to protect her seamless dress from distasteful wrinkles. "Aunt Ruby, Mother says not to use that word." In her hands were the disembodied tatters of a wounded stuffed animal, which she carefully began to re-stitch together.

Another girl asked, "Which word? 'Hell' or 'damn'?"

"Both of them!" the first girl shouted back. "Mother says they're _both_ bad words…"

"That's so stupid. How could a word be bad?"

"I don't care, it's what Mother says!"

"Girls, girls!" Aunt Ruby waved a weary hand. Headaches fractured her brain—mental rifts carved by the tendrils of intoxication—threatening to paralyze what distorted cerebral activity she still possessed. "There's no such thing as a bad word. But if your mother doesn't like it, I won't say it."

" _See_ ," the second girl mimicked, sticking out her tongue. She swung her legs tirelessly from atop the island barstool, drenched with boredom. "It's not a bad word."

"It's not a _good_ word, either," said the other girl. "And besides, Mom said not to say it."

"Stop being Mom's pet! ' _Opal, Opal, Opal_ '—that's all Mom ever talks about. You love the attention, I bet." The girl on the stool found a loose strand of her black hair and chewed on it. "We're not kids anymore."

"We're only fourteen—"

"Exactly! The kids in the districts start working when they're _twelve_. We're adults, we can say what we want."

"Mother wouldn't like hearing you say that—"

"Mother isn't _here_."

"I can _tell_ her!"

"Kids!" Aunt Ruby exclaimed, her visage darkened with aural exasperation. She rubbed her temples and blinked firmly to clear her wine-clogged mind. "How about we just…take a deep breath…and relax." She closed her eyes and drew deep, meditative breaths, receding into a partially-conscious trance. The sisters exchanged knowing glances—it was just the wine talking.

"Saph's just going against Mom on purpose to annoy me," Opal muttered, hoping Aunt Ruby would detach from her mindless oblivion and sternly reprimand her sister, Sapphire.

"Shut up! I am not. You just need to grow up." The girl on the barstool released a muffled, seething growl.

Opal ran a pale finger through her finely-straightened green and blue hair. "Sister, are you even dressed for mother's broadcast? Did you even _bathe_ yet?" She looked demeaningly at Sapphire, craftily changing the subject. "And your hair looks like a mess."

"Better than yours."

"You died it _black_."

"Black is a better color than your green-blue-whatever rainbow." She extended a bandaged finger toward Opal's kaleidoscopic hair.

"Black _isn_ _'_ _t_ a color." Opal pursed her lips into a faint smile, merrily stitching her teddy bear. Sapphire glared at the needle as Opal skillfully pulled it through the fabric, silently condemning her sister to a similar fate as the eviscerated cotton animal.

Sapphire glanced at her scratched hands, equating each blemish with the sharp bark of a good-for-climbing tree. Then she looked at Opal's fair, unsullied skin, sheltered behind a reserved, floral-patterned skirt. Her own jeans were torn and frayed, and her make-up was habitually shades darker than her sister's. It was a wonder they were related, let alone identical twins.

"You're just like mother," Sapphire murmured, her tone derisive.

"What's wrong with that?" Opal asked, spreading her hands like a pacifistic mediator. "Are you saying there's something wrong with mother? I'm telling—!"

"Oh, shut up. That's not what I said," Sapphire backtracked. She looked to Aunt Ruby for defense, but the short-haired woman merely slouched against the counter with closed eyes, a torpid shell. Sapphire carefully shifted her weight on the barstool, her once-fidgety legs now motionless. "Anyway, I don't care what you say. I don't need my mommy to watch after me."

Opal elicited a melodramatic shriek, as though Lamita Estate were windswept and sent hurtling toward the inferior buildings below. "You're such a brat. You don't listen to anyone, you only care about yourself, you—I don't know _how_ anyone can put up with you." Opal stood up, seizing her teddybear by a half-sewn arm. "No wonder why Mother hates you." On her way out, she shot Sapphire a condescending smirk, eyebrows raised in amusement.

The black-haired twin grumbled, sulkily trying to reach her feet to the ground. Opal's words were nothing new—haughty and overzealous exaltations of their mother—but Sapphire's bridled disregard left her dejected and ostracized. Vexed, the girl dismounted the barstool and landed with a nimble _thwip_.

Sensing the lightness of dissipating tension, Aunt Ruby blinked open her eyes. She looked tired. In her gruff, clunky voice she said, "Sapphire…hmm…" The woman awkwardly twirled her wine bottle against the counter, searching for words in her muddled brain. "So, uh, you excited for the games?" she asked, as though adhering to an unwritten Capitol curtesy.

Sapphire glared at the floor, avoiding the question by evading her aunt's half-conscious gaze. Aunt Ruby was a large woman—not overweight, but scaled proportionally in every dimension, like a Frankenstein giant. Her physical frame coupled with her close-cut, fire-red hairdo made her look imposing—a "walking nightmarish terror" as many Capitolians had described.

But she always had a kind heart.

"No, I'm not very excited this year" Sapphire admitted, expecting to be admonished for her atypical opinion.

"You were always _…_ _always_ excited for the games," Aunt Ruby said, glancing upward as though catching fragments of a reverie. "Not…this year?" Her voice was surprisingly considerate, though perceptibly slurred from intoxication.

"I dunno," Sapphire said, self-conscious. "I kind of changed. I was a stupid kid back then. Now, the games just don't feel right to me anymore. P- _please_ don't tell my mother."

"Oh, no Saph." Aunt Ruby waved away the notion with a blithe hand. She left her wine at the counter and pulled out a barstool at the island. Reticent, Sapphire did the same.

"Never told you this, nope, but I'm not one for the games, myself. Your mother? This is what that woman looks forward to every year… _damn!_ Can't say we get along about it."

"It's like my sister," Sapphire said, shrugging. She glanced at the floor ashamedly, as though her aversion to the games was family treachery. "Opal loves the games. Probably because my mom does, I dunno."

"Don't worry about that," Aunt Ruby said, cupping and fully cocooning one of Sapphire's small hands between hers. She looked fixedly into the teenager's eyes, trying to sustain her wavering gaze long enough to convey sobriety. "The whole thing is just a way to make the districts suffer. But I say: who gives a damn? The rebels who betrayed Panem are _gone_ , died hundreds-a years ago. So…so…why do we need to make everyone worry and stress about the games to prove a point? Just makes the districts hate us even more than they already do, heh…seems like a stupid idea to me." She grabbed instinctively at the air above the island, dolefully realizing she had left her wine bottle on the counter.

"So…" Sapphire said, taciturn. "You…you don't like the games either?"

"Hell, of course not!" Ruby heartily chuckled, temporarily suspending her normally-pessimistic disposition. Sapphire knew her aunt suffered from chronic depression, relying on sarcastic defense mechanisms and alcoholic overindulgence to assuage her cynical life perspective. "Th-the games are…shit. And so is everyone who supports them." It was evident the woman had no fear of besmirching her highborn reputation. Sapphire found it unorthodox, but strangely refreshing.

"Aunt Ruby," the teen laughed, airy with wonder, "I didn't realize you were this cool."

"Cool? _Ha_ …Nah, I'm just the President's washed-up sister."

"You're cool to me, though. You're not like my sister…Or my mom," she added, a muzzled utterance.

Aunt Ruby swallowed a drunken laugh, swishing a leathery hand through her close-cut, magmatic hair. "Oh, girl! You're too funny! That poor mother of yours."

"You should've been my mother," Sapphire jested. She applied a fake smile and rapped her knee with a slapstick whack; but within the deep-rooted trenches of her psyche, within the narrowest, medial concavity of sheer metaphysical instinct, Sapphire knew that _she_ —her self, her crimson blood, her anima—was telling no joke. _Any_ mother would have been better than Amethyst Lamita.

Aunt Ruby blinked her remarkably sober eyes. "Oh, no, no. Being an aunt's good enough for me," she insisted, quieted by the magnitude of their conversation. Then she cracked her knuckles and massaged her ring finger.

"Aunt Ruby…?" Sapphire began, her voice like a mouse's. "Why didn't you have any kids?"

The kitchen fell hushed and arid, as if a vacuum had absorbed every iota of humidity in the noiseless room. Aunt Ruby cleared her throat, but remained silent, like a child concealing a lie.

"I'm sorry if—"

"Oh, no, it's fine! I never wanted any," she confessed. "Your mom, she had you and your sister only a…a few months after she moved into this wretch-wretched place." She looked around the spacious room with a scrunched glare, as though voicelessly rebuking it's absent team of mindless, subservient Capitol constructionists workers. "My husband— _ex-_ husband—and I wanted to help your mom out by raising you kids. You two and your brother are like…like the children we never had."

Sapphire nodded emphatically, but said nothing.

"And besides, it's a… _hell_ of a lot easier to raise someone else's kid. Well—maybe not. But at the end of the day, it's your mom who was responsible for you. But…that doesn't mean I didn't love you with all my heart." She was forthright, her inebriated delirium temporarily subsiding. "I really do love you kids."

Sapphire reddened from sappy embarrassment, more acquainted with her aunt's unremitting depression than the hidden, wholesome emotion beneath.

Aunt Ruby coughed, cheeks matching her vermillion hair. She scowled dismally at a Victorian painting, giving loathsome looks to a placid-eyed, white-wigged man whose life seemed enticingly serene within the confines of an unchanging, unproblematic frame. "Err—well, you know. You're just kids, I kind of had to love you. And you're my sister's, anyway."

Sapphire merely giggled. "Heh—it's _okay_ , Auntie. Don't be so _shyyy_ …" She tittered again as the brawny woman hastily retrieved the near-emptied bottle of wine.

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled, polishing off the bottle with an impressive guzzle. "What a day," she said, looking through a faint slit between two curtains. "Look, it's raining. The whole Capitol's gone to shit on its most beloved day."

"Hah," Sapphire choked on a laugh. " _Gone to shit._ "

Aunt Ruby pivoted like a crime-watching Peacekeeper, "You really shouldn't use that word if your mother doesn't approve…" But her tone was insipid and her sincerity apathetic.

"But _you_ use it…!"

"True." Aunt Ruby shrugged. "But I guess I'm a little too… _drunk_ to care. And be-besides, you're such a sweet girl…you don't need to use those words." Her eyes bulged as she gaped disconcertedly at the dry bottle, as though longing for the Gods of Intoxication and Good Times to restore it's contents.. Then she nudged her niece playfully and beamed. "Let's keep this between you and me, okay? Your mother would kill me if she found me drinking before her broadcast."

"Yeah…sure!"

"You know," the woman said, "Your mom's in a dangerous place. Still… _here_ at the Capitol, resting in her mansion, doing th-the broadcast. Everything." She waved her arms forcefully with each item she added to the growing list of Amethyst Lamita's mistakes.

"Because of the war?"

"Exactly, my dear. There are bad people out there who want to hurt us. N-not _just_ from the districts anymore…but other countries now, too. Which is why this _damned_ Hunger Games needs to be stopped." Her words dripped with ardent-toned vigor, but also a creeping hint of trepidation.

"What do you mean?"

"We already have bad people biting at the gates to overthrow our country and _end_ Panem." Her voice was grave. "And then we have these Hunger Games that are _begging_ the damned districts to join in the retaliation. The Capitol needs to learn when to do the right thing; and this is not it. _Ughh_ …"

Sapphire swallowed hard, hearing only the muffled air of her aunt's groan.

"I'm sorry, Sapphire. I—I shouldn't have said those things. You shouldn't have heard me say that. _Damn_ me and this wine." Aunt Ruby glowered at the bottle nested in her hands, her deep hazel eyes squinting with self-defeatism.

But Sapphire wasn't upset or scared. "I can handle it. My sister couldn't. Mom tries to hide this kind of stuff from us…to keep us from worrying, I guess. But I knew we were getting ready for war, and deep down Opal knew it too. But I can handle it, I promise. I'm fourteen, anyway—more than old enough to know." Her voice was gentle, with punctuated cadences where youthful energy spiked.

The woman didn't look convinced. "I'm sorry…I-I might not have always…been the-the best aunt to you. Sometimes I say things without thinking. I'm nothing like your mother, so…I'm sorry." Her words were honest, but no less dull and uninflected.

"Stop," Sapphire said, absorbing the awkwardness of her aunt's candid apology. "You don't need to get all mushy, it's fine. I'm not my sister."

Aunt Ruby released an alleviated, pent-up sigh, raising the wine bottle as though in commemoration. "Oh, good. I'll drink to that—if I didn't already drink all the damn wine in this place." She smirked sarcastically, laughing a little.

"Can I have some wine?" Sapphire asked. "Just a little bit? We can go get some more from the cellar."

"We _could_ ," her aunt said, "but we shouldn't. Your mom wouldn't like it one bit. Sorry, Saph."

The girl moaned. "I _am_ fourteen," she reminded, resting her cheeks in her scraped palms. Aunt Ruby winced—fearful of losing her prestige as the "cool" relative—expecting to hear the branded "I'm not my sister" rationalization.

Aunt Ruby leaned on the stool toward Sapphire, looming over her niece like the Estate over the buildings below. The woman rested her elbows on the wooden tabletop and interlocked her sinewy fingers, as would a salesman preparatory to making an appetizing offer. "How about this? The next time you come around my house, where you're not under your mother's rules, I'll let you taste some wine— _if you behave_." Sapphire wondered if her aunt included the last part to ensure her hard-shelled demeanor remained intact.

"Deal. Aunt Ruby, you know how to bargain well," Sapphire said, as her cosmetic-less lips curved into a devious smile.

The fire-haired woman modestly rolled her eyes. "No, I'm just very tired and very, very drunk."

Before Sapphire could respond, she heard the echoing click-clack of shoes against the kitchen's stainless wooden flooring. Aunt Ruby's expression turned grim as Sapphire swiveled her barstool in a semicircle. "Oh—Mother!" cirrus

Amethyst Lamita entered the room gracefully. She wore a long, draping white dress that gently caressed the floor like the filamentous cirri of wispy silk clouds. Her arms delicately rested at her sides, palms open—undisguised—warranting no danger. Light blue hair cascaded down her shoulders like a perpetual waterfall, enriched with undying, tranquil life. Her skin was fair and spotless—requiring no cosmetics—not defined by age, but timeless beauty. And her face bore an inviting, thin smile, assuring Capitolians near and far that she was a goddess among their time.

"My dear Sapphire." Amethyst's words flowed smoothly off her tongue, unembellished but pure. She spoke with importance, her words sounding distant yet full, as though articulated by an omniscient, supernatural watcher. It was hard for Sapphire not to fall into a peaceful, hypnotic stupor at the sound of her mother's voice.

"Hello, mother. Aunt Ruby and I were just talking. I-I should go get changed into my nice clothes now…?"

Amethyst glided to her daughter like an ethereal deity. She rested a feather-light hand on Sapphire's shoulder and surveyed her daughter through cryptic blue eyes. "Dear Sapphire, is my sister filling your head with nonsense again?" She looked at Ruby whimsically, but the red-haired woman returned an unamused expression. "Have you been drinking?"

Ruby tensed the empty bottle in her hands, wondering if it might break between her ironclad fingers. "U-um. I'm sorry, Amethyst. I didn't realize you were so clingy about your wine."

"Clingy?" Amethyst repeated, her saintly voice slightly unhinged. She looked down at Sapphire and offered a teasing smile, as though telling her daughter "this is just how adults play." "Sapphire here will tell you: darling dear, does this family consume alcohol?"

"N-no!" Sapphire piped up, shaking her jittery legs and massaging her hands as though they were _literally_ forced.

"That's right, darling. Alcohol is not good for the body. We mustn't forget that, now." She offered a heartwarming smile before looking at her sister with a pitying expression. "When Aunt Ruby sobers up, I'm sure she will agree." By now, Amethyst was stroking her daughter's hair, a territorial glower in her eyes.

"If…if you don't drink alcohol, th-then why do you have a cellar loaded with every damn alcohol in the whole Captiol?"

"Shh…shh," she covered her daughter's ears protectively. Sapphire's brave independence had long since fled; the girl sat unflinching in her mother's grasp. "My dear sister, you mustn't say those words around my children. Please, they taint my daughter's ears."

Aunt Ruby stared at the ground, defeated and sullen. "Fine," she said at last. "I'll present myself better. I'll do whatever's best for Sapphire." Ruby voiced her niece's same with a hidden surge of emphasis. For a brief moment, the girl and her Aunt met desperate gazes.

"Thank you," Amethyst said graciously, spreading her arms in equanimity. "Now, come Sapphire. We must make haste. The broadcast is soon, and neither you nor I stand fit for appearance. I have prepared a speech," she divulged, then looked at her sister. "And I would like you to attend as well, Aunt Ruby. I implore you, I do."

Aunt Ruby grumbled, muttering an "I will, Madame President" through suppressed sighs.

"Very good," Amethyst said. "Shall we go prepare, my daughter?"

Sapphire's eyes were heavy—suddenly, she felt very tired. "Yes, mother."

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** Not really a question, but I would love to see a ranking of the Gemstone Ladies (Opal, Sapphire, Ruby, Amethyst) from favorite to least favorite in terms of their character. I'm VERY curious to see what you think of them.

 **Author's Note:** Writing these female characters was a blast-though I guess you can say even the President's family has it's own problems. Anyway, this chapter might have sparked a lot of questions, which I hope to answer in the upcoming chapters. I don't want to give anything away, but if anything confuses you, feel free to ask! Til next time.

~PisuLuckee


	7. Genesis

**Author's Note:** This chapter marks the final chapter with no reader-submitted tributes! Next chapter you'll see a few tribute cameos, and the chapter after that will be _much_ more than just a few cameos. So yeah, a rather short chapter, but an important one nonetheless. Enjoy!

 **SYOT Note:** For anyone with a tribute in this fic, expect a PM from me soon :)

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

 **Genesis**

* * *

Sapphire and Amethyst ambled leisurely through the central "grand" corridor of Lamita Estate. For the teen, it was a prolonged, cumbersome trek along a hideously flower-patterned runway, a catwalk not shy of gratuitous Victorian ornamentation. Above her hung a vaulted ceiling—an endeavor of interminable length—painted by workers on towering ladders. The entire hall, steadied by supporting marble pillars and encased in thick, noise-proof walls embellished with antique artwork, felt like the enchanting threshold of another world entirely.

"My dear," Amethyst said, her voice angelic. She rested a smooth hand on Sapphire's shoulder. "Was Aunt Ruby scaring you in there? I always did warn you about her…" The President batted her eyes crazily, as though suggesting her sister were deranged.

"N-no, mother…she treated me nice…she really did." Sapphire ran a twitching hand through her black hair. The entire atmosphere—like a judicial scrutiny from the men in the wall-adorning paintings—felt muggy and hauntingly disconcerting.

"You know, my sister is…troubled. Depressed might be the accurate word, perhaps. But troubled, nonetheless."

"She _is_ depressed," Sapphire agreed. "But she's harmless, I know it."

"No, my dear," Amethyst said, holding up an index finger as though gently reproaching her daughter. "My sister can be friendly, I realize. _Normal_ sometimes, perhaps…though that might be a stretch. But I'm afraid her growing depression has caused her to… _lose_ a bit of herself."

Suddenly Sapphire felt diminutive and trivial, as if the vast corridor were swallowing her flea-sized self. And the longer she interacted with her mother, the quicker her self-esteem dwindled—as though she truly were in the presence of godly omnipotence.

"You see…before Aunt Ruby's divorce, she felt _part_ of this family. A little batty, of course, but she's always been like that. But these last few years have left her depressed, insane, and…a little jealous, I'm afraid."

"Jealous?" Sapphire parroted. She searched her mother's beguiling eyes for clues, but the woman's guarded persona had always left answer-seekers disappointed.

"Indeed," Amethyst assured, resting her hand on Sapphire's black-shirted shoulder again. "I obtained the position of President through shrewd politics—that story can wait for another day. My sister…has been an unpleasantly changed woman ever since." Now Amethyst leaned closer, the pressure of her hand on Sapphire's shoulder nearly bringing them both to a halt. In half-voice, the woman murmured, "And when I gave birth to you and your sister…Aunt Ruby lost it."

Sapphire pulled away. "M-me? And Opal?" she asked, her sharp words hushed at the throb of Amethyst's _shhh_. "But that doesn't make any sense…" Sapphire moaned, quieter. The conflicting, persuasive stories thirsting for credence made the situation erratic and dangerously misleading. But she clung to her mother's words with inherent inquiry.

"It is sad, but true. Have you ever wondered why she acts so friendly toward you at times? And, perhaps, so cold to you at other times?" Amethyst looked hurt, and her voice grew strained; Sapphire could tell that disclosing this information was no easy task. "I'm sorry if this upsets you, my dear Sapphire…but Aunt Ruby hates us for being the family she could never have. And she loves you when she thinks you belong to her."

Sapphire's head was spinning. Her thoughts were streams of water, churning over themselves repeatedly, each droplet no more anchored than a once-was truth irradiated by new light. This mental tug-of-war gave the girl an unsought headache. "But Aunt Ruby has done nothing to harm me…"

"Has she done anything to help you, either?" Amethyst asked. "Like an Aunt should? Does she take you shopping, or care for you when I'm busy or unable to do so?"

"W-well…" Sapphire stumbled on her words. She wanted to challenge her mother and flee to Ruby's defense out of sheer opposition. But the President's words were soft and impressed a convincing transparency. And besides, Amethyst wasn't the intoxicated one.

The woman's eyes glinted brilliantly, reflecting light off the glossy marble pillars and arches that decorated the hall. "You see now, don't you? I can see it on your face…that look of realization." She examined her daughter with piercing astuteness, and Sapphire felt fully unveiled, as if all her secrets were clear and tangible. As if Amethyst were scrutinizing every fiber of her soul through a gargantuan microscope accessible only by immortals worthy enough to comprehend its profundity.

"Y-yes mother. I-I see." And Sapphire felt helpless beneath her mother's gaze.

"Very good, my dear." The President said, releasing her daughter from inspection. "That brings me to another topic—the Hunger Games. It has come to my attention that you are not in favor of the very tradition that has helped keep peace in our districts?" Her mother's words sounded benevolent—probably because they always did—but Sapphire couldn't shake the notion of being interrogated.

"H-how did you know that?" the girl asked. Then she corrected herself: "What I mean is…why would you even think that?"

"I know this, my dear…Opal has been complaining about you for weeks. She says you're nothing like the daughter you should be. She says you don't support the Capitol in its ideas. My child, are these words true?" unfazed

Sapphire didn't look up. "N-no, not entirely. That's a bit of an exaggeration. And it's not even true!"

Amethyst looked unfazed. "What bothers you about the games? Tell me, dear Sapphire. Your love for the games was once so rich in spirit, like your sister's. Now, you are a foreigner to me, like a changed girl. It reminds me of the way my sister departed down a path of curious abnormalities…I don't want you to steer yourself similarly." Her words were limpid, crystalline like a goddess's, empathetic and philanthropic in nature. "Following a path of change is not necessarily bad…but that depends on where the path leads."

"But no, mother—"

Sapphire was quickly silenced by a dismissive swish of Amethyst's bejeweled hand. "Please…Sapphire, find your way back home to me. Find you way back home to where you belong." Then she spread her arms wide, like an eagle spanning its wings before taking flight. "The games _are_ good."

"How can they be good?" Sapphire asked. "When all they do is end lives and ruin families?"

" 'End lives and ruin families'," Amethyst restated. "Tell me, dear Sapphire: how many more lives would be ruined if the districts weren't under such strict control? If no law bound them? The Hunger Games may be tragic…but they _are_ law. Without them, the districts possess an insurmountable defiance."

Sapphire felt bolder now. Her mother's mystifying transfixion had since extinguished, its scorch marks leaving only the preachy and faultless Amethyst in its wake. Sapphire hated her mother's inability to compromise. "What if the districts rebel? Then maybe they could start a better government, couldn't they? Maybe it's not a bad thing." She had much to say, but she fumbled her thoughts.

"Perhaps," Amethyst conceded. "Perhaps they could make a better life for themselves and for everyone. But perhaps not—perhaps it could end in turmoil and disarray, something much worse than this world, this government. And regardless, either conclusion leads to our family's demise. Your friends…your teachers…everyone you ever knew or loved…gone." Amethyst's voice waned until it was no louder than a soothing hum. "Would you be willing to sacrifice the the lives of your family and friends…for a _chance_ the districts make Panem a better place?"

In that infinitesimal moment, Sapphire felt smaller and pettier than ever before, so tiny that even Amethyst's supreme, preeminently-amplified microscope wouldn't be able to detect her. But even the girl's meek reply echoed off every marble niche in the grand hall: "N-no, mother."

* * *

The President's office was a chatter-mouthed bevy of Capitol assistants and television crewmen, all running amok like headless chickens in preparation for the yearly Hunger Games broadcast. Amethyst stood waiting behind her desk—congenitally prim—while stylists and fashion designers with peacock hairdos polished the President's cheeks and smoothed indiscernible creases in her dress. Other men and women were re-renovating—and re- _re_ -renovating—the office in minutes, replacing curtains and adjusting furniture to "eye-catching" angles.

Beside the President stood her lead advisor, Raxter Platt. From a chair along the side wall, Sapphire glared at the man with vehement, pronounced hate. To her, he was nothing but a duplicitous man who served Amethyst's every whim. He never disagreed with the President, always nodding his head with a toothy smile that looked more like a slimy, noxious sneer.

Raxter was a short man, unhidden beneath short, vibrant blonde hair. His head was square, with an unusually small nose and a disproportionately large forehead. His face was covered with light freckles, and his beady dark blue eyes always swept the room like a snake watching its prey. As far as Sapphire cared, he was just a painfully loyal man with a reptilian face.

"One minute til broadcast," a cameraman announced, adjusting his equipment by millimeter increments until Amethyst was perfectly centered in the frame. With each passing second, every employee in the President's office worked exponentially harder, until their hands were jittery with adrenaline-fueled anticipation.

"You'll do great," Raxter assured, shrill and witch-like.

Amethyst only nodded. "I should hope. The districts need to hear this, as always." Then her eyes met Sapphire's for a fleeting second before getting peeled away.

"Where would you like me to stand?" Raxter asked.

Sapphire keenly watched the President and her advisor, though their words were imperceptible over the room-wide ruckus.

Amethyst responded, "Stand over there, with my daughter Opal." She decidedly paid no heed to Sapphire's watchful stare.

The teen caught her mother's words and frowned—she and Opal were standing together, yet Amethyst pinpointed the latter. And Aunt Ruby was standing beside them both, her massive frame hard to overlook. Was Sapphire viewed as mere peripheral family failure, or were the President's remarks harmless? The girl wracked her brain helplessly; the longer she toiled with hunches, the longer these notions bore fruitless answers, and the quicker her brain fell victim to agonizing mental dead-ends.

The girl decided her mother's words meant nothing.

"Ten seconds!"

A boy quickly scuttled to Sapphire's side, winded. He was adjusting his tie as he heard Opal hiss, "Jasper! You're late! _Don_ _'_ _t_ disappoint mother like that again!"

Sapphire rolled her eyes, playfully nudging her little brother for comfort. He was ten and Opal was fourteen, but she chided him like a mother. The boy offered Sapphire a weak grin as the cameraman began his countdown.

"Five…four…three…two…one…"

" _Hello Panem_ …And welcome to the official commencement of the 311th Hunger Games. In your home districts, each and every one of you stands awaiting our yearly game—our _tradition_. Only one hour ago, your district's annual reapings concluded, and with it, two of your brave, young children marched off to fight in the Capitol's most brilliant project: the Hunger Games.

"Some volunteered for family. Others, for fun. Others yet, for the fame and honor of winning the games. But most did _not_ volunteer. Most of these reaped children awoke this morning with dread in their hearts and hatred for the Capitol. To the families of these reaped tributes: do you, too, hate the Capitol?

"Panem is not the Capitol. Panem is not twelve segregated districts that all serve a distinct purpose. _We_ are Panem. You, I…my children _and_ your children… _we are Panem_. Any action the Capitol takes is only in effort to make the bestfor Panem. I do not support the Hunger Games out of sheer entertainment. The _Capitol_ does not support the Hunger Games because it deems your children worthy to be hurt—or worse. We support the Hunger Games because it is what we, Panem, need for survival.

"It is common belief that the Capitol hates the districts, that the Capitol wishes to manage and control you and your families. To whoever believes it true, I tell you otherwise. The Capitol _needs_ you, each and every district. We _need_ luxury, we need masonry, we need technology, fishing, power, transportation, lumber, textiles, grain, livestock, agriculture, and mining. Without you, Panem would not _be_ Panem.

"These things, these twelve simple yet brilliant things, are what keep this country alive. The Capitol is merely the glue that binds District 1 with District 3, or District 8 with District 12, and every career district with their non-career brothers. The Capitol is nothing more than a helpful cog that turns the wheels of this country into a working, twelve-part machine. But you need not thank us. You need to thank _yourselves_.

"More than three hundred years ago, the Capitol and its districts lived as one: united. No animosity or hate, and no Hunger Games. Just peace, harmony, love, and happiness. But our ancestors could not make it last.

"Because three hundred and twelve years ago, rebellion swept Panem in a series of bloody battles. The death tolls reached higher than any in our country's lifetime, marking a dark era in Panem's history books. The peace, harmony, love, and happiness that Panem had known so well was gone. And _all_ that was left was animosity and hate.

"District rebels strung up Peacekeepers on trees and burned them alive. They showed no mercy for the Peacekeepers' families, setting their houses ablaze where wives, mothers, children, and crying, defenseless infants sought refuge. Countless Peacekeepers and their bloodline was slaughtered that year.

"Three hundred and twelve years later, the Capitol and its Hunger Games are loathed. To all rebels living and dead, I ask but one question: how is this any different than the heinous murdering of Peacekeepers three centuries ago?

"The Capitol did not ask to be betrayed. And like any mother should, the Capitol will scold its children for their wrongdoings. Is it corrupt to seek retribution? To seek justice for the hundreds of thousands of Peacekeepers who died at the hand of rebels? The very rebels who are your ancestors? The very rebels who chose to shatter the everlasting peace the Capitol and the districts had at one time so harmoniously possessed?

"The rebellion made it clear the Capitol was not strict enough. It's own kindness made it susceptible to burn at the districts' whim, and it fell hopelessly into that trap. Now, the Capitol has drawn a fine line between the punishment that needs that to be served and the "unfairness" with which it is commonly associated. We do not butcher children. We do not laugh at your sons and daughters. But we do seek to avenge every Peacekeeper who died at the hand of the rebellion.

"Perhaps you hate the Captiol. Perhaps you even hate me. I may not be able to sway your opinion, but I will try my hardest to instill wisdom: the Hunger Games have helped rebuild the severed relationship between the districts and its Capitol. For the sacrifice of twenty-three lives, we are saving millions. We are continuing to spin the wheels of this working machine called Panem. Perhaps you do not deem it fair, or noble, or kind. But where was the kindness three hundred and twelve years ago for the Peacekeeper children?

"To the tributes of the 311th Hunger Games, I bid you all good luck. I remind you that trust is the foundation of family, and sacrifice is the remedy of betrayal. The games may not be easy, nor may they seem fair…but you must understand the unifying step your sacrifices will make. To save your family…to save your friends…to save your country…to save _Panem._ Ttrust is the foundation of family, and sacrifice is the remedy of betrayal.

"March to the Capitol, you brave young tributes. And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** As a reader, how did Amethyst's speech make you feel? What do you think she was trying to convey?

 **Author's Note:** I'm sooooo excited to finally get started on _your_ chapters. These expositional chapters were necessary, but I'm so pumped to get into the meat of the story, where things really start to happen, relationships build, etc. Expect lots of exciting things soon, including PMs and polls (to help me determine the fan favorite tributes) and a whole lot more. I think I might be more excited about the games than Amtheyst Lamita is. Til next time!


	8. Bleeding Heart

**Author's Note:** So sorry for the delay! It was really tough finding time to write this last week or so. But the chapter is very long, so at least there's that! I think a fair estimate to my updates would be about every 5-7 days, depending on the length of the chapter. I don't want to stick to a tight update schedule because it'll probably be tough, but 5-7 days in between an update will probably be the norm. So yeah, next chapter probably around Wednesday!

I hope you enjoy this chapter, there was so much foreshadowing, symbolism, references, allusions, etc that I wanted to fit in this one-I would LOVE to hear your theories. By **far** the toughest chapter to write yet.

Also, tribute cameos in this chapter! And official tribute reveals in next chapter!

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

 **Bleeding Heart**

* * *

 **District 2 Outskirts**

* * *

" _Take it, take it and read it when no one is watching. I wanted to wait until you were older to tell you, but_ _…"_

Lisa's words tore at his curiosity like a multiplicity of pervasive, strangling vines. Cole scowled; he wanted to read it, but her letter—and the rest of his parting gifts—had been confiscated by a short, sinewy Peacekeeper with a gruff promise: "we'll get these back to you on the train."

They _were_ on the train, and they _were_ reissued their daggers, as well as Polarie's lipstick, but the letter had since vanished. And in response to Cole's query, the Peacekeeper merely dissolved the question with a turned shoulder and an insouciant whisk of his hand.

The ride to the Captiol was no more relaxing. Each train car was a slender, technological prism sporting high-class gadgets, lavish furniture, and delectable meals—a black hole of exorbitant luxury. Cole pondered whether this special treatment was meant to ease his qualms; or serve as a sadistic juxtaposition, an ironic amalgamation of young death superimposed over the lust for an unreachable, idyllic life.

And President Lamita's speech was, as Cole perceived, no more than a glorified lie, a deceitful argumentative fallacy. Her citation of "heinous" Peacekeeper murder was not aptly prefaced by the Capitol's use of aberrational muttations to keep Panem wriggling beneath its tyrannical control.

"My dears, shall we start now?"

Amina's words snapped the boy's mental torpor. The Spera children, as well as Amina Starr and their mentor, Chromius Ashe, sat like royalty around an expensive glass-topped table in the dining car. Mountains of the Capitol's most exquisite food balanced precariously on their dishes while a video recap of the other districts' reapings was paused on a wall-mounted television.

"Is this really necessary?" Jade asked. "You know we're not like normal careers. We don't want to 'prepare'. I'm really tired, and—"

Chromius smothered a deliberately-noisy chuckle, blunt enough to silence the girl. "So you think that you can just skip over all the help we're trying to give you? If you think so, go ahead. Sleep. Good luck in the arena. I'll ask your mother for the dimensions of your casket."

Amina drew her lips into a pleased smile. "Watching the other districts' reapings is a necessary part of becoming the tribute that will _win!_ You'll get to see their strengths and weaknesses even before you meet them in person. You'll get to study them, analyze them, and learn _everything_ there is to know about them."

"I don't even want to win," Jade said. "If it means my brother died. No, I would just rather be dead, too."

"Jade…" Cole's tone was markedly faint. "Jade…please don't say that."

"No, I'm serious," his sister said, unswayed with a self-assured wisdom of unerring.

Amina massaged her eyelids. "Please, your voice drains me, girl. Your constant complaints, your incessant talking…"

"You're not exactly a princess, either," Jade countered. "After the reapings you called me a bit—I mean, a b-i-t-c-h." Cole was fascinated by his sister's biting comebacks accompanied by her staunch disapproval of curse words.

Amina applied a fake, condoling frown. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt your feelings? When you were making a mockery of me and your district onstage? For a second, a _brief_ second, I was looking forward to helping you kids. Well, my dear Jade, you have lost that opportunity now. So, why don't you go carry yourself to your bedroom—and please, fix that _ghastly_ hair and makeup of yours—and get the much-needed sleep you so desperately long for?"

Jade examined her hair in the mirror of a spoon. "Damn, she's a _fiery_ one," Chromius said, cracking his hand against the table for needless effect.

"Please, Ms. Starr," Cole said, organizing the disarrayed modulations of his voice into a polite request. "M-My sister didn't mean it. Let her stay, please. Let's, let's just watch the reapings."

Jade exuded a seething, histrionic sigh while Amina flowered her face with a gratified beam. "Very well, let's begin. Oh, and Cole, darling? No need for formalities—you may call me Amina. Jade, honey, I'd rather you didn't call me anything at all. Not even spell out b-i-t-c-h behind my back, okay?"

Before Jade could exhale a muttered retort, Chromius unpaused the television to display District One's town square, a monochromatic venue dominated by pastel hues of gray. Aside from the Capitol, Panem was a bleak, leaden place.

Onscreen, the District One female mounted the stage. She was a silver-haired girl named Ambrosia, surprisingly lean for a career. When her escort—no less artificial than a walking mannequin—prodded for a speech, the girl froze as if transfixed. Then she offered the crowd a myriad of a hand signals, an inscrutable patchwork of sign language.

" _This_ is our career from One?" Chromius asked. "How the hell did she know she was even reaped if she can't hear?"

"Maybe she's _mute?_ " Jade spat.

"Well then, no need to worry about her," Amina said. "Easy to kill. See, isn't this fun?" Then she tugged coyly at Chromius, their voices fusing in a crude ensemble of mock laughter.

The male volunteered next, requiring little conjecture to verify his outward stereotype. He looked untouchable—towering and brawny—the kindred analogy to Lance Tocar or even Chromius Ashe. His bulging muscles etched archetypal quintessence into his veins, instilling reflexive panic in the pair of onlooking tributes from Two.

"How is this helping?" Jade asked. "Look at him, he's huge. This just makes me _more_ terrified."

Chromius shook his head. "Nah, big guys like that don't have a lot going on in their brains. Most of them don't, at least. Easy to outsmart, unless you're unlucky."

Jade's instinctive satire was temptation to politely direct Chromius to the nearest reflective surface, but the man quickly said, "Well, _I_ _'_ _m_ an exception to that." Then he rapped a sturdy palm against the table, rattling his dish. He rolled up his sleeves to reveal athletic forearms, then offered a sheeny grin, a vivid white dyed against his tanned skin and jet black hair.

"Well, _I_ think he's terribly overconfident," Amina said. "Look at him, just because he's from District One, he thinks he can carry himself like a god. Overconfidence is _not_ the way to win these games."

Cole moaned. "At least he has something to be confident about."

"My brother's right. We have nothing, _nothing_ good going for us." Jade carefully interlocked her fingers, a resolute stare meeting Amina's eyes. "So, how is this helping?"

The escort lazily furrowed her brow. Jade was an unremitting thorn in her side, a recurring, irksome nuisance of cyclical mental atrophy. Cole inferred from the woman's connotative sigh that Jade's snappy remarks were wearing her tolerance thin. "You'll be thanking us later for this opportunity, sweetie. Along with a lot more help that we intend to give you, whether you like it or not. Now, let's move on, to district three."

Chromius fast-forwarded, melting the District Two reapings into a blurred stitching of stop motion videography. During the distinct, transient moments of visibility, Cole watched the blight of Jade's reaping, followed by his own, followed by the insurgence of rioting careers hostile toward his pessimistic speech. In synchronization, Cole's emotional torture linearly paralleled the speedy timeline of his past until he wanted to scream out in bone-crushed pain.

But then the pain was over, and a girl named Annie Wickham ascended the stage.

"Damn, look at her," Chromius muttered. The girl had one side of her hair shaved off, the other half an interlaced plait spidering along her scalp. Given her situation, she looked surprisingly level-headed, an innate skip in her high-spirited step. "She looks crazy."

"Optimistic, maybe," Amina corrected. "So, still crazy."

"One of those 'life is good' people, I bet."

Amina smiled warmly at the strapping mentor. "A fool."

"Still," Chromius said, looking between Cole and Jade. "At least she isn't blubbering like you two were. Careers from District Two crying onstage. _That_ must've been a sight to see!" Then he clacked his hands on his knees like a self-applauding jester and laughed, spitting out ill-conceived fragments of words between his chuckles.

"Seriously?" Jade asked.

"Honey, don't talk back to Mr. Ashe."

"I wasn't even—"

"And don't talk back to me, either. Chromius is just trying to help by shedding some _truth_ on the situation. Perhaps you should listen, instead of acting superior and ignoring everything we say," Amina requested. Then she added, her voice a coquettish trill. "Really, Chromius is _very_ helpful."

Cole softly cleared his throat. "Um…guys? There's the male from Three, on the TV…if anyone cares?"

"Perfect! Thank you, Cole." Amina clasped her hands together. "I think we can tell who the _obedient_ sibling is." Jade and Amina swapped inciting glares, stalemated territorial cats with bared teeth and on-end fur.

Chromius studied the lanky boy onscreen. "Destin Tames? Bloodbath tribute, nothing to worry about." Then he reached for the television remote to fast-forward.

"Wait," Cole said. His empathetic heart identified with the poor boy. He was relatable, more of a supplement to Cole's survivalist mediocracy than he was a unique person. They were both underdogs, and Chromius's disregard for "Destin Tames, the bloodbath tribute" was likewise a disregard for Cole, himself. "W-wait…Give him a chance. Tributes from Three…they're usually good with electronics, aren't they? He might be more of a threat than we're giving him credit for?"

Chromius snorted. "Sure. He can build a computer to talk to his mommy on. Don't worry about him, kid. He's got no chance."

He's got no chance. _Cole, you have no chance._ Beneath the weight of Chromius's sincerity, Cole's heart twisted and crumbled. His soul was squeezed, and disintegrated like the tatters of a withered, vaporized leaf, whisked off by a malevolent gust and buried deep within the crater of spiritual malaise. It was a theft of his vitality—his vigor, his pep, his _life force_ —leaving only an empty human chassis in its wake: a bag of blood and tissue, a skeletal organization of bones no more significant than a collection of stamps. Cole was a mere shadow of his former self, a twilit image that would never cease digging in that graveyard of perished souls.

"Ah, the girl from four. Jadelyn, sweetie, she looks like you," Amina observed. On the TV, the female from Four volunteered, a pale-skinned girl with black hair, an optical semi-equivalence to Jade. "Chromius, what do you think of our career from Four?"

"That's a funny thing. You know, I would bet she's the most dangerous career this year. Watch and see."

"How do you know?" Cole voiced.

"You'll see," Chromius assured. "In the arena. Meet up with her? She'll gut you good, I bet."

The boy crinkled his forehead. "Oh…thanks."

"Ooh, look, look!" Amina fanned herself, a flirtatious undertone tracing her words. "This boy from Four, what a looker. My, if I were fifteen years younger, I'd throw myself _right_ at him." She was beguiled and plain-spoken, as though oblivious to those around her.

Jade turned away and vomited in her mouth, while Chromius surveyed the frizzy-haired escort behind the shadowed veil of his crestfallen eyes. But Cole watched the television with despondency; this boy from four, though maybe a tantalizing fantasy for Amina, was another Capitol clone—a Herculean giant—an endorsement of the Career Academy with a seemingly manufactured vocation for murder.

"Well…I-I'm sure Chromius was right. Big guys like him…they don't have much going on in their heads…right?"

"Believe what you will," Chromius said with a grunt. "I think we know where she stands on the matter." He pointed to Amina, who ogled the handsome career boy like a puppy would to a succulent treat.

"Oh, please." Amina brushed his comment aside, elated pulses in her voice. "If these two aren't going to have any fun,"—she pointed between Cole and Jade, never peeling her eyes off the screen—"then I will. Let's not get in a fuss, now. Look, District Four's over. Time for Five and the rest of the boring districts."

Chromius murmured a purl of affirmation. "Hmm…District Five: let's see, we have a boring red-headed girl; don't they always die early?"

Amina bit the end of her fork. "Mm, let's hope. That outfit is dreadful. And her hair. Oh please, just fast forward, fast forward."

"Once again, not helping," Jade quibbled.

"Look here, kids." Amina pointed to the screen. "This boy from Five; weak, short, underfed. Tributes like these are your easy pickings, a _quick_ way to get a kill without doing much work. Then the sponsorships will come, sweeties."

Cole's impulse was to controvert and object to Amina's neglecting of human life. For that matter, he wanted to abstain entirely from murder, regardless of what invaluable gifts those silver-capsuled parachutes held.

Then the boy from Five dissolved into a segue of grayscale pixels, a rearrangement of amorphous shapes that rendered a grim District Six. Through the transition, the camera hinged on a narrowing panorama of town square before settling into a comfortable ground-eye view of the reaped girl. She was twitching, struck with panic, a human bomb approaching emotional detonation.

"Really?" Amina asked, directing a glare at Jade. " _Another_ fragile girl who will tire us with her mental breakdowns?"

" _Stop mocking me_ ," Jade said, her tone diffusing into a low growl.

"Yeah, um. Amina? My sister, she was just—"

"Don't exhaust yourself defending her, Cole. You poor thing, having a sister like that."

"The reaped girl, this girl from Six," Chromius began, his words already brewing with snickers, "I think her name was Jade, too. Jade Hemlock, wasn't it?"

Amina guffawed. "Another Jade! The _Jades_ this year leave a lot to be desired, don't they?"

"You're being such a…such a…jerk!" The girl found her piecewise words with difficulty.

"Is that the best your insults can do? Dear, there are much stronger words you can call me than _jerk_."

"I thought you told me not to call you anything at all?"

Once again, the defensive felines reached a deadlock, an impasse so cavernous that hateful remarks would plummet and dematerialize far below.

" _And now for our District Six boy!_ _"_ the TV blared, its volume turned intentionally high to tune out the bickering females.

"I'm gonna separate you two," Chromius murmured. "Jade, pay attention, for once."

" _Hydan Olser! Hydan, Hydan please come to the stage!_ _"_ The television's raucous bellowing ricocheted in everyone's ears. When the slender boy joined his cosmetic-infatuated escort, she said, " _Hydan, what would you like to tell the crowd?_ _"_

" _It_ _'_ _s_ such _an honor, you can barely even imagine!_ _"_ the boy masqueraded. _"_ _Running around in an arena with twenty-three other people trying to kill me sounds like a_ fantastic _way to entertain the government._ _"_

Chromius squinted. "Funny guy, eh?"

"He's very funny, I think," Jade said.

"Sarcasm is a poor defense in the Hunger Games," Amina assured with conviction. "He's lucky a Peacekeeper didn't beat him down for those comments. Isn't that right, Chromius?"

"Right as always," he answered.

Jade twisted her face into a sour expression. Cole drew his attention from the palliative food on his dish and asked, "D-do you really think we stand a chance…?"

" _Mm_ , yes, of course, my dear. But not without the right mindset. Before the games, I hope to instill enthusiasm in you both. Enthusiasm to win."

"Oh…" Cole said. "U-um…thanks."

The boy thoroughly scrutinized Amina for the first time that day. The woman's face was always powdered—analogous to a mime's—an elegant coating to smooth the ripples and once-tangible imperfections on her face. Her golden eyes were haloed by a floaty nimbus of matching eyeshadow, like tiny disks of sunlight shedding an ambient glow. A flounced light green dress accentuated the graceful contours of her body and lent an illusive mirage of height; and her emerald, frizzy curls draped beside her face like corkscrews, blending with the fabric, a subtle gradient of avocado tints. Despite her tasteless character, her looks were sophisticated and bordered seductive.

"Probably another bloodbath tribute…" Chromius said.

Cole blinked; the District Seven girl was reaped—an apparent "bloodbath tribute". The male was next, far from a muscle-carved titan, but still a well-tanned boy emanating an aura of winsome charm.

"Perhaps a fair ally for you," Amina noted.

"Why him?" Jade asked. "I thought careers were supposed to ally with other careers? Isn't that how it works?"

"Frankly, I've come to terms that neither of you would even _want_ to ally with the careers."

"It's about time you've realized it," Jade grumbled.

"A pity, really," Chromius said. "You kids will stand even less of a chance than you do already."

"Oh, well thanks," Jade said. Cole poked his uneaten food, desperate to divert further trauma from his already-shambled brain.

The remainder of the recap was similar. Amina and Chromius delighted themselves through jarring criticism of the other tributes, lacing their words with provocative lilts and exchanging erotic leers. The District Eight boy was a "pathetic wimp" and the girl from Nine "looks like a boy, anyway!". Kieson Dove, male from Ten with veritable physical strength, was a "pretty boy with nothing to offer," and his female counterpart was unforgivingly typecast as "the irrelevant girl who's going to die early, anyway." And the youngest tribute, twelve year old Elias from District Eleven, was ostentatiously belittled by a "far superior" Chromius Ashe: "I could kill kids like that the _day_ I started my career training!" All the while, murkier shades of gray overtook the previous district's—a seamless transition of hazy opacity—like a cloudy screen overlaying a video output.

When the verbal thrashing concluded, Amina said, "And _that_ , my dears, is why you're not necessarily unworthy to win these games. These other tributes, they are _nothing_ special."

Cole shrank into the woodwork of his chair, the scraps of his confidence inanimate and desiccated. "But…how? I-I mean, it's not like we're—we're _killers_."

"Trust us with our work, Cole. You may not be killers now, but soon, _oh so soon_ , you will be _transformed_."

The boy recoiled farther, eyes held fully exposed by the acuteness of his predicament. "I'm going to die. I-I don't stand a chance," he wailed. Even all the crevices in his wooden chair couldn't shelter his emotions from vitriol.

Amina took a dainty sip from her glass. "Nevertheless, there is more to discuss: your itinerary for the week, from the moment you arrive at the Capitol to the moment you enter the arena. Everything has been planned out. Chromius, would you please share the schedule?"

The mentor revealed a Capitol-emblemed sheet of paper, an organized timetable of events. Chromius began reading with bored lethargy, squeezing the flimsy paper as he would to the neck of a hapless tribute. "Day one, that's tomorrow. You have the chariot ride, followed by the first white room test."

"How does that go?" Jade asked. "The white room test? I've heard about it, but…I don't know what to expect."

"You're trapped in a tiny blank room with all the other tributes. How do you think it is? It's psychological torture. In the old days of the games, if you didn't like someone, you could ignore them. If you didn't like being surrounded by the other people out to kill you, you could, well, ignore them. Today, the Capitol loves watching everyone squirm and argue and hate each other in this damn test. And all while you're hot and sweaty in a stuffy little room. It's a big psychological experiment that everyone in the Capitol adores for no good reason—and it's broadcasted, only to the Capitol. Personally, it's the one part of the games that I _hate_."

Jade knitted her brows, already feeling the compressive paralysis of claustrophobia suffocating her breath.

"Whatever you do," Amina stated, " _don_ _'_ _t_ show weakness in the white room. There are no distractions, so everyone will be inclined to remember your faults."

"How long are we put in there?" Cole asked.

"Three hours," the mentor said. "It doesn't sound too long, but trust me: they're three _very_ long hours." Chromius watched the high-strung boy pinch nervously at his skin like an addled, amateur masochist. "But don't be _too_ stressed…because on day two, you have the first training day. Days three and four, obviously, are the other training days. Ten hours each day; it's a lot of time, but use it wisely."

"And don't worry," Amina cut in. "We'll know what stations you should train at. We'll take care of _all_ the hard work for you!"

"Thank you," Jade said, bluffing appreciation. "I feel so much better, I can barely contain myself."

"Day _five_ , _"_ Chromius interjected, giving Jade a cutting look. "You'll have your private sessions."

"And of course, you'll receive your training scores," Amina added, complementing Chromius when his words faded.

"Day six is the interviews," the man said.

"We'll prepare you for those."

"Right. And day seven, which is the last day, is the second white room test—"

"So there's one white room test at the beginning and one at the end," Amina interposed.

"Yeah, so, day seven: white room test _again_ , and then the final tribute feast. After that, game time."

"And you should eat a _lot_ at the tribute feast."

"Right, because after that, game time."

"Yes, oh yes, you enter the arena after that."

"And hopefully win."

Their words buzzed back and forth like a maddening bee-hive game of verbose table tennis. Cole anxiously rubbed the back of his neck as their banter crescendoed into dire unification: " _Make sure you win!_ "

Winning was a daunting proposition that made the boy's stomach boil with disquiet. Was it even possible? He studied the ceiling with pensive inspection, then said, "But wait…how-how can we just accept this? The games…they were rigged for me and Jade. The reapings…all of it was fake."

Amina rose her eyebrows so far that her golden, sun-alluding rings of eyeshadow stretched into dysmorphic ovals. "Are you suggesting that, as your escort, I played a part in 'rigging' these games?"

"N-no," Cole spluttered.

"Well, surely you do. I chose the names from the bowls, did I not? You must think that I chose your name on purpose, then?"

"I…I don't—"

"Leave him alone," Jade ordered. "Of course the games were rigged. And you know it. There's no way fate would put up _both_ into the games. And, conveniently, all of a sudden no volunteers are allowed?"

Amina tilted her head and stared at the children in stupefaction, as though visually probing them for marks indicative of extra-terrestrial ancestry. "The Capitol would not rig their games. Maybe as rebels of your district, you think the Capitol is a horrible beast out to ruin your lives. But _no_ , it would not pull a miserable stunt like that. Take a guess, Cole: what were the odds of your sister getting reaped?"

"Um…um, I really don't—"

"Just a simple guess! Humor me, I beg you."

"A thousand to one?"

"A thousand to one? Maybe more, maybe less!" Amina warbled. "So, similar odds for yourself, yes?"

Cole subliminally massaged his neck. "I-I guess, yeah…"

"And, Cole, neither of those odds are _impossible_ , are they?"

"N-no, Ms. Starr."

"So then, were the games _necessarily_ rigged? Would you stake your sister's _life_ that this was no coincidence? Are you telling me that the laws of probability have fled the Earth?"

Cole's own primordial trust—rooted in the veins of logic—answered her question: "N-no…um, I guess not. I guess…they might not have been rigged."

"Very good, Cole." Amina smiled. "See, aren't things much calmer when you just agree with me?" Then she stood, mirrored by the mentor. "Chromius and I need a break from our work. We'll see you both in the morning. Don't worry, the cleaning staff will pick up after us." She shiftlessly caressed the rimmed circumference of her glass, her fingers echoing a haunting ringing on its perimeter. "I want to reach into this glass and pull out a name," she said, dabbing at the left-over wine. Then she reeled out her dripping fingers, whispering, " _Look everyone, the female tribute is Jadenlyn Spera_ _…"_ And then she tipped the glass on its side with tactless complacency. She smiled and walked away, gesticulating for Chromius to follow.

When they were gone, Jade muttered, "I hate her. _Hate_ her. She's horrible, she's mocking us, Cole, and there's nothing we can do about it."

"Well, I—"

"And she's so disgusting, _both_ of them are. They're probably sharing a bedroom right now. You saw them all night, giving each other cute looks—I bet they're more concerned about their love lives than protecting us. They have no class— _ugh_ , I just hate them both. They lied about the games being rigged, they don't care, one or both of us is going to die. And…they just make me so mad! You, you don't understand."

 _One or both of us is going to die_. Cole did understand—he understood perfectly well. But he didn't accept it.

* * *

That night on the train, Cole had a nightmare.

There was a man named Vermillion—looming, and frail from an ancient, immortal odyssey—within whose shadow did black-feathered crows reside. He wore a dark, floaty cape, his gossamer cloak. Pulled over his face was a white mask, shielding his skin. Only the distinct scent of blood prevailed.

The man stood at a crossroads. On a sign near the left path, inscribed with scrawling letters, was the word "Bravery"; the middle path, "Love"; and the right, "Wisdom".

" _Choose a path,_ _"_ Vermillion said, his voice hollow and remote, _"_ _and take it. Do not come back, for there will be nothing here. For you cannot escape your fate._ _"_ And he stepped aside.

Bravery was what Cole lacked. Love, what he possessed. And Wisdom, what he sought.

But he was familiar with Love, so he chose that path—the middle path.

It led to a forest, lush with vibrancy. Floral purples and silky pinks, a rainbow mosaic against a green, leafy canvas. Sounds of nature whispered like glassy tranquility, a soft ruffle of leaves and a distant trickle of running water.

On his journey there was his father, toward whom he extended a warm hand; his mother, smiling, youthful, and pretty; his sister and his friends; his home, a home far away from District Two, a dwelling sheltered in the grassy sanctuary of this forest.

But his trek became arduous. The vivid flowers shriveled into inky stalks, pale and lifeless. The healthy, verdant trees cracked and decayed into ashen vapors, swept away by the wind's desire. And the entire horizon was dotted red, the rotten blood of cumulus clouds—clouds drained and devoid of life.

At the end of his walk, two paths intersected with his, like branching tributaries converging into a single, uniform river. Two paths, one on his left and one on his right, as arid and desolate as the one he had just traversed.

And standing at the crossroads was a man named Vermillion, looming and frail from archaic, primitive eternity. The stench of blood saturated Cole's nostrils until he wanted to cease inhalation.

"I don't understand," the boy said. "What is this world?"

Vermillion smiled—or rather, Cole assumed he were smiling beneath the sunken alcoves of his mask. _"_ _I have told you, long ago. You cannot escape your fate, Cole Spera._ _"_

The man reached a spindly finger to his face, a yellowing talon on its end. And he scraped off the mask.

It was the creature, the humanoid, emaciated creature that tormented Cole's dreams. Waiting for the boy again, in the rifts of his unconscious, where an invisible line was drawn between fantasy and reality. Where dreams were silly delusions, or perhaps harbingers of catastrophe, foreshadowers of destiny.

Vermillion's mouth dribbled with blood. _"_ _Cole, in this life, you have no chance._ _"_

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** If your tribute was cameoed, what did you think of the (most likely negative) things that were said about them? Agree/disagree/think Amina's just being deliberately annoying? Also, follow up question: which day of their pre-games itinerary (see below) seems the most intriguing to you?

* * *

 **Itinerary**

 **Day 1:** _Chariot Rides_ (2pm - 3pm); _White Room Test #1_ (7pm - 10pm)

 **Day 2:** _Training Day #1_ (10am - 8pm)

 **Day 3:** _Training Day #2_ (10am - 8pm)

 **Day 4:** _Training Day #3_ (10am - 8pm)

 **Day 5:** _Private Sessions_ (1pm - 4pm); _Training Score Reveal_ (9pm - 10pm)

 **Day 6:** _Interviews_ (5pm - 10pm)

 **Day 7:** _White Room Test #2_ (2pm - 5pm); _Tribute Dinner_ (7pm-10pm)

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thanks so much for reading! I would love love love to hear your comments, reviews, speculations on Cole's dream, etc!

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** **TRIBUTES FINALLY REVEALED**


	9. Chariot Ride

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay! I had exams for four weeks right in a row and I spent most days studying and/or doing homework or something and I barely had any time to write. Also, I've been working on the website for this fic, which should be published in a few days (and when it is I'll PM you all the link so you can use that as reference for the tributes and characters!). Anyway, I haven't abandoned this fic or anything, so enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

 **Chariot Ride**

* * *

 **The Capitol**

* * *

It was morning. Cole's room felt hollow and empty. Everything was there—nothing out of place—yet a dormant silence lent the atmosphere a metallic, concave chill. But it wasn't _quite_ silent; drops of rain patted against the windows, adhering to the glass like a mesh of translucent splinters.

He remembered his nightmare, but only stray pieces: his father, a figure in a hood, the red-stained melting of the Earth. A symbolic convolution of death.

Cole checked the time: seven in the morning. He should've been exhausted, but he just felt numb. And the lulling pitter-patter of rain should've bribed him to sleep, but he was caught floating between an intangible place of exhaustion and vigor—some form of physical limbo.

When he wandered to the dining car, he was surprised to find Amina and Chromius already eating breakfast.

"Oh, Cole, sweetie!" Amina started. "You're awake—so good to see you! Not so much a sleepyhead, are you?" she asked.

"I had a nightmare," Cole said.

"Oh, well, that's no fun," Amina said in a pitying voice, pulling her face into an overplayed, big-lipped frown. "Join us for breakfast?"

"I'm…I'm not hungry," the boy answered. He padded quickly to the side of the dining car, looking out the window.

"Oh, the horrible rain," Amina said, her words accompanied by showy hand motions. "Such a shame; little teardrops falling on our tribute parade today."

"Fine by me," Chromius said, his voice thick with exhaustion. "It's always so hot, anyway."

"Oh, hush!" Amina slapped his wrist playfully. "Don't wish bad fortune on these poor, poor tributes."

Cole wondered if she truly thought they were such poor souls.

"We'll have to do something about your sister, sweetie. Sort out her attitude, I should hope."

"She's just been, um, really tired lately," Cole assured.

"Better be," Chromius muttered. "Because we'll be at the Capitol soon. And then we need to take you kids to the Remake Center to get ready for the chariots. So we don't have time to deal with any of her meltdowns."

Although Jade was fast asleep, Cole thought he could hear his sister's sarcastic murmurs through the reverberative walls of the high-tech train: _"_ _Oh, what a joy._ _"_

* * *

Their arrival at the Capitol concurred with the swift retreat of rain; almost majestically, sunny skies peeked through the vanishing thunderheads, pouring down their own showers of glimmering sunshine. The Capitol itself—though miserable to admit—looked like a utopian metropolis, its architecturally stunning skyscrapers enhanced by the luminous sunlight behind. The entire place felt alien, both unfamiliar and extraterrestrial, as though the train were a conveyance between Earth and an intergalactic, ever-sunlit planet whose residents inhabited the golden-spired buildings creeping sublimely toward the sky.

The Remake Center was no less impressive. The building's anatomy was composed of nearly two dozen floors, each one folding upon itself in a maze of cold-floored and high-topped industrial rooms. The Capitol's technological gadgets littered every space, from tiny drones carrying supplies to green-lit holograms drawing images of the Capitol and sketching lists of words and numbers that looked confusing yet important.

Cole and Jade were introduced to their stylist, an effervescent man with a puff of Capitol-esque purple hair. He didn't look a day over thirty, nor did his exuberant verbosity suggest otherwise: "Let's get you in your outfits right away! You're going to look _beautiful_. Let me say, _b-e-a-u_ _…_ "

And indeed, they were forced through a gauntlet of aesthetic renovations. Their hair was perfected, their outfits were straightened to a degree of "undoubtable visual beauty", and their skin was doused with a punishing amount of tone-enhancing cosmetics. All the while, a crew of stylists surrounded and touched-up the siblings' appearances, _oohing_ and _aahhing_ like a group of sharp-beaked pelicans surrounding a years-worth supply of fish.

Their jackets were pieced together entirely by a coating of gravelly rubble, each pea-sized stone painted white and shellacked until every imperfection faded. A few of the rocks were instead dyed black, spidering through their white-hued counterparts to create a winding tree-branch effect.

"This is _so_ much better than a dress," Jade said, blowing out air in relief. "Th-thank you, Orion."

The stylist smiled charmingly. "Anything for my tributes. You children really do look lovely."

"Best of luck to you both." Amina appeared in the doorway, her green hair and English accent recognizable staples in her already hard-to-miss character.

"Amina…" Jade moaned reflexively.

"Jade," Amina sighed, approaching the girl slowly. "I know we've had our ups and downs, but I _do_ hope you're marvelous out there." Then she reached for the girl's shoulders and offered a quick kiss on the cheek.

Then the escort positioned herself to look directly into Cole's eyes. "And you too, darling. Best, best wishes." She gave the boy his own departing kiss. When she stepped back, her face was contorted in a half-pleased, half-upset scrunch. It was the raw emotion a mother would demonstrate before sending her children somewhere safe and happy, but—alas—somewhere far, far away…

* * *

The tribute parade constituted a lengthy stretch of road, culminating in the City Center: a topless dome, a colosseum of prodigious breadth fit for a king and the entirety of his lineage. The circumference of the Capitolian monument was crammed tightly with flamboyantly-attired aristocrats—a sea of chromatic feather boas, face-sheathing sun hats, and lustrous jewelry and trinkets.

The first chariot drifted smoothly against the mosaic-tiled stonework of the Capitol's main road. Mounted atop were two bedazzled careers, precious gemstones lining their outfits and transitioning seamlessly through a diversity of rainbow colors.

Jean Trent was as frightening in real life as he appeared on camera, and twice as menacing. It was clear his Academy training had served him justice, both physically and mentally. His white blonde hair was slicked back like plastic wrap, and his sinewy, muscled arms conjured the visual analogy of constricting anacondas, burly enough to warrant his smug demeanor.

"Look, everyone loves us," the eighteen year old said, waving with one arm and stuffing the other coolly into his pocket. Then he watched as the crowd collectively turned their gaze to the newly-arrived District Two chariot. "Psh—who cares about Two? They should be looking at us, not those wannabes back there. We're District _One_ …there's a reason why we're _one._ "

The girl at his side rolled her eyes, though Jean Trent paid no heed. Ambrosia, too, was waving, her own jewel-sequined dress an uncomfortable sleeve over her willowy body. The metallic glints of the outfit matched her silver hair perfectly, a shimmery cascade of earthy shine.

"You know, sometimes I wish you could talk back. It would make me feel a little less crazy."

 _Why?_ Ambrosia pondered. _You feel crazy talking to thin air, because you know I won_ _'_ _t ever answer? Because I_ can't _answer?_ She was tempted to offer a host of descriptive sign language—to "appease his wish"—but she knew the effort would be futile. As far as Ambrosia observed, Jean Trent understood even less of her "strange hand signals" than the Capitol knew how to run a country.

"Well, whatever," Jean muttered, his voice terse. "You're probably more pleasant this way, anyway. I wouldn't want to lose that sweetness about you."

* * *

"Look at them all," the girl from Three said. The sixteen year old was waving like a well-seasoned Hunger Games professional, though her eyes were wide with awe. "So many people all in one place—isn't it amazing?"

" _Amazing_ isn't quite the word I would use," Destin Tames answered. He ballooned his cheeks with air like a pufferfish before releasing a heavy sigh. Then he patted down his brown hair and looked at Annie. What was she doing? Foolishly optimistic and lighthearted, as though this were a laid-back moment to "make the most of". He knew he was smarter than she was—he contemplated it many times, as he did with everyone—but what about the rest of the tributes? The Hunger Games was no math test, or science, or english for that matter. He understood how the world worked, and how people worked—but what if someone _understood_ just a little more than he did? It was a frightfully stressful notion.

And if his brains failed him, rivaled by someone smarter than he, what talent did he have left? Certainly not brawn, not even for a sixteen year old. Destin frowned; he just wanted to read a book. He picked at his outfit for a moment—a little black jacket patterned with machine cogs—and then sneezed.

"Allergies again?" Annie asked him as he rubbed his nose.

"Yeah, _again_ ," the boy answered in a nasally tenor.

"Don't worry about it. Just wave and smile."

"I'm trying."

"Not good enough…well, try doing it like me!" And Annie waved emphatically, as was her nature. Then she nudged the boy. "See, it _can_ be fun." And then the girl shifted her weight back and forth, as though too lively to stand still. Her hair—or rather, the half that wasn't shaved off—rocked gently from side to side, creasing her scalp with a narrow plait and extending past her ribcage. She wasn't a very strong girl, with skinnier features attributed to malnourishment, but her lithe bone structure and incisor-sharp fingernails offered her the security of moderate formidability. All that an her disconcertingly rich verbalism: "Look on the bright side…at the very least, _one_ of us gets to win."

* * *

"How are you feeling?" Jayleigh Llyr asked. Her partner from Four appeared to be in his "good" mood, so she applied a mask of charm to match his disposition.

"I'm good," he answered, playing to the crowd's exhilaration with a series of sky-high fist pumps. Quite literally, it _was_ sky-high; the eighteen year old career stood at six foot three, a well-tanned, blonde-haired Adonis. And his solidly-chiseled frame only added to the sightly leviathan that was Andrew Chip. "You?"

"Excited," Jay half-lied. But she told him what he wanted to hear, right? In her mind, Andrew—or "Sandy", as he preferred—was easy-to-read _and_ inscrutably complex at the same time, depending on his up-and-down mood. But she _had_ been studying him on the train: Sandy's good temperaments were accompanied by paper-thin, flitting remarks, while his bad left him snared in a habitual state of knuckle-cracking and affixing odd rhythms to his speech.

As she waved, the girl smoothed out her dress, a black and blue fabric with down-helix tendrils resembling the tentacled appendages of a jellyfish. Her jet black hair blended with the cloth, a deep contrast to her pale white skin. The seventeen year old said, "Let's just hope one of these crazy fans actually wants to sponsor us."

Sandy chuckled lightly, unwittingly rubbing at the birthmark on his left cheek. "I think we'd be fine without sponsorships, anyway."

 _Yes, definitely in a good mood_ , Jay noted. _He_ _'_ _s acting confident_ _…_ _good sign._ She looked over and up into his green eyes, unbothered by sharing his look. "You're right—why would we need sponsorships?" And she smiled warmly. "It's good that we agree with these kinds of things, isn't it?"

 _He_ _'_ _s going to nod, breathe in, and say yes._ Indeed, she knew all too well.

* * *

Fia Thame waved to the crowd; even _she_ couldn't pinpoint her own buoyant optimism. The Hunger Games were _horrible_ , but at the same time, intriguing. Did everyone secretly fantasize about the chariot rides? Wonder how well they would do in the arena? Fia wasn't ready to find out, but the notion still piqued her interest. And regardless, she _wasn_ _'_ _t_ going to give up.

" _Byyy-rennn,_ " she called, looking at her district partner. He was fifteen, her age, but he looked so tiny and underfed that he was nearly a lost phantom in his own outfit. "Wave to the crowd, just in case. They'll like it, trust me," she encouraged, accessorizing her words with excessive hand gestures.

The boy shifted awkwardly; he made no outward attempt to conceal his social ineptitude, often hiding behind a well-broadcast shield of "looking away and nervously fumbling with his words". He could barely even look at Fia. Although, something about her curly red hair and face full of freckles, paired with her almost-comical infectious laugh, made her more a companion than any of his fake "friends" back in District Five.

"Alright," he said, starting to wave. "I'll try it out." He wondered if his high-pitched voice annoyed her.

Fia grumbled. "There's so much—ugh— _pollen_ in the air." She pinched her voice and suppressed a sneeze, her eyes red and watery. And her outfit was stifling, a black cross-stitching of electrical wires and cables. "I hope no one's watching me." Then she issued a deafening sneeze, making Byren jump.

"Bless you," the boy said in his falsetto voice. Then he stopped waving and clacked his fingers together with growing apprehension. He must've looked so pathetic. His only power was his brilliant mind, his books; but those weren't going to impress any flesh-hungry Capitolians. He was like a little ten year old, the antithesis of a strong-bodied career. And his short black hair and pale skin probably just made him look like some creepy, unwanted vampire boy.

Fia fidgeted in her stance, hopping from one foot to the other. Then she released another sneeze.

"Bless you…"

* * *

 _A seven day itinerary._ It was such a painfully daunting awareness; days in and out of training, interviews, white room tests, _action_. His final week before the arena would be tiresome and horrible. All he wanted was to sleep and think. He didn't want to prepare. He didn't want to practice his interview answers. And he certainly didn't want to deal with twenty-three small-minded individuals within the claustrophobic confines of an asphyxiating white room.

 _And_ , Hydan Olser realized, if he were killed in the arena, dying a barbarous, bloody death, he had the Capitol's own stupidity to thank: their asinine idolization of brawn over brains. He knew he was smarter than _everyone_ in the arena—smarter than everyone in the Capitol, too—but his talents would have to be shelved so that the lucky career in a pack of hulking imbeciles could claim their unearned title of "winner". Well, not _this_ year. This year, brains would overcome brawn.

"Smile and wave," Hydan repeated, his voice mocking the shrill chirrup of his escort. "Smile and wave to a bunch of idiots."

Poison's lips curled into a subliminal smile. The frizzy-haired dirty blonde didn't really converse with her seventeen year old district partner, though ideally she avoided conversation in general. She _did_ , however, agree with many of his sarcastic viewpoints, despite his laziness and unending complaints.

The fourteen year old stood hunched as she nervously twitched, her hands jittery. She knew she wasn't a favorite to win—an all-around skinny girl, though with a decent amount of muscle beneath. But what worried her most was the stress of the arena. She suffered from more and more panic attacks each waking hour; what would the games be like? More than likely, a mentally debilitating opportunity for her stress and paranoia to run rampant. Before her sanity collapsed into a decline of self-defeating psychoanalysis, she clenched her tremulous hands and drew a deep breath.

"You're all shaky," Hydan observed.

But Poison didn't respond. She didn't need to. He was right. She felt like she were going crazy.

* * *

The District Seven chariot wheeled into view, carrying two tributes garbed in a Tarzanian entwinement of twig debris and colorful autumnal leaves. Heracles tried playing to the crowd, waving both arms in the air and encouraging applause. The tanned, bronze-skinned boy laughed to himself— _almost_ amused.

Sierra put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Aren't _you_ just Mr. Popular?" she asked.

"We have to make the most of it, don't we?" he asked genuinely. "And besides…I'm just looking out for my—err, _our_ —survival. We need to do the kinds of things that need to be done, right?" Then he glanced down at Sierra's hand.

The crimson-haired girl slipped her fingers down, playing with a few loose twigs on the boy's outfit. "Yes, you're right…so smart, of course," she said, tightening her fingers around the strands of artificial lumber. Then the seventeen year old examined the burns on her lean, blemished upper arms, and smiled. Fire was such fun.

Heracles turned away, returning to his passionate, adrenaline-charged engagement of the fanatical onlookers. And when he did, Sierra snatched a few of the twigs she had been playing with, unbeknownst to the dark-haired boy. Then she dangled the pieces in the air, studying them with fascination as though they were scraps of timeworn lore. And she let them drift away.

Heracles examined the crowd; then his scrutiny fell on introspection. He had a plan—no— _several_ plans for the arena. He never wanted the games, nor did he enjoy them, but he was a realist, and he wasn't immune to being reaped. If he had to grudgingly accept the games as a necessary evil, he _would_ have a plan. And he would put his heart and soul into survival, if it was the very last thing he did.

* * *

The thirteen year old rubbed his arms; it was a brutally warm day, but Lezar felt an underlying sensation of crippling chill. Even his woven, checkered robe offering a visual ensemble of dazzling, vibrant colors wasn't warming him any.

"You cold?" Arabella Thimble asked.

Lezar nodded at the eighteen year old. Even though she treated him like an angel, he was still shy in her presence; but nonetheless, he always appreciated her kindness.

"I should've taken that silly scarf they offered me," she said, nudging him and smiling. "I would've given it to you."

"Oh—well, thanks," Lezar said, offering the best half-smile he could muster. The boy's green eyes were downcast, his short brown hair failing as an optic shield.

Their chariot turned into the colosseum and Arabella admired—eyes wide as usual—the zestful, encircling crowd. Then she coughed. "Aww, this sucks," she said, scrunching up her nose. "We don't like the games," she said to the boy in a lighthearted, friendly tone. Then the girl delicately adjusted her hair bow—her trademark piece, which she smuggled onto the chariot despite her stylist's protestations.

The dainty girl was small for her age, offering the appearance of childlike harmlessness. Her dark brown hair was in curls, and a sprinkling of light freckles dotted her cheeks. "Should we wave?" Arabella asked. "Let's wave together, okay Lezar?"

The tiny boy nodded, his indifferent demeanor replaced by a natural, rarely-seen smile. Arabella's tender warmth and likable childishness always overcame his innate effort to remain soft-spoken and guarded. He didn't know her very well, but she felt like a person in which he could confide.

When Arabella began waving, Lezar joined with a timid wave of his own. "It's so silly, these chariot rides," the girl said. Despite his reclusiveness, Lezar had formerly—albeit inadvertently—demonstrated his loathing for the games. "We just look like a bunch of depressing people in weird outfits."

Lezar liked that, and he smiled and laughed a little. "Depressing people riding on top of chariots."

"With a bunch of people studying us so they could spend all their money giving random kids sponsorships," Arabella giggled.

"Inside of little silver parachutes falling from the sky."

And they both laughed. For a district partner—an eighteen year old, even—Lezar realized that Arabella was a dream come true. Maybe even a friend.

* * *

Willow Sanders tapped his foot: he was skittish. Despite being the tallest tribute in the arena—standing at a commanding near-seven feet—and despite his career-rivaling physical strength, he hated the games. And whatever he hated, he feared.

Oliver stood next to him. "Olivia Glassow" as the escort had announced, a comment for which the big-haired woman was immediately corrected. _"_ It's _Oliver!_ _"_ the fourteen year old had snapped, rolling his eyes. Of course half of District Nine had probably laughed at him; being a genetic female who associated as male led to strong-worded closed-mindedness. But acceptance and understanding were strange things, because Oliver knew he only needed himself.

He even got his stylist to change his chariot outfit last minute: "I am _not_ wearing that frilly grain dress! Either make me an appropriate version, or I'm wearing my _own_ clothes!" On the chariot, he wore a matching—though proportionally smaller—wheat interlacement. Not a dress, but a drab-colored tuxedo.

As he waved, he wondered if the crowd thought him a girl. His hair was cut short like a boy's, and he did indeed look male. And now, setting foot in the Capitol for the first time in his life, he further wondered if his daydreams and fantasies could be realized: surely the Capitol had the surgical capabilities of gender modifications. So if he could _win_ the games, he would be _rich_ , and his affiliation with the Capitol would skyrocket so insurmountably they _couldn_ _'_ _t_ deny him surgery even if they wanted to. Then he could officially be the person he always wanted to be.

Willow Sanders offered a few gentle words. "How do you like the Captiol?" He could see the starstruck glaze in the younger boy's eyes.

"I love it—at least, I _think_ I do…" Oliver wanted to sound sure. He appreciated Willow's general undisguised kindness; the eighteen year old muscle man was a quiet but friendly guy. Someone who was easy to talk to; someone who would _listen_. And best of all, someone who didn't judge Oliver's aspirations.

* * *

Josaline was enjoying her time in the spotlight. Her dark chocolate hair pitched from side to side as she maneuvered to each end of the chariot, offering the crowd a multitude of enthusiastic waves. The fourteen year old basked in her new-found independence, no longer smothered by the pressuring weight of her stylist, escort, and mentor. Now, alone, with no one to supervise her, she could play the games the way _she_ saw fit.

"Woah there, let's ease off on the sugar, now," Kieson Dove said, raising his eyebrows as Josie continued back and forth across the chariot.

"I'm trying to win," Josie said. "Look, the crowd loves me!"

Kieson wasn't one to judge. Surely Josie's lacking physical strength would serve as a detriment in the arena, but her confidence was tenfold that of any career's. He admired her conviction.

The eighteen year old chewed on the zipper of his jacket, overtaken by thought. He wore a blotchy cowhide fabric analogous to the rural pastures of District Ten, and sported an extravagant straw hat that looked much more expensive than required for its purpose. Kieson's short blonde hair was gelled up in thin spikes, and his icy blue eyes could've easily frozen the yearning looks of any flirty-eyed female.

"Kieson, can we _please_ just stop taking orders from everyone here? When we get to the training center…please, you and me, we need to make a stand. I can't take this anymore."

" _Yes_ ," Kieson said, no trace of doubt in his voice. He had a reserved hatred for the Capitol and the way it was run, and _especially_ for his escort and mentor lackeys. "They don't even know what they're talking about. They could barely even follow the Capitol's own messed-up rules, let alone mentor us. _Haa_. The Capitol is such a joke. But not even a _funny_ joke. And now I'm making jokes about jokes— _ha ha_ , the wit."

Josie laughed expressively. "Good. I don't feel like being bossed around anymore."

* * *

All he wanted was the be accepted. Elias Severio, the lone twelve year old, stood confidently—though with secret anxiety. The skinny, underfed boy ran his fingers through his curly hair and sighed noiselessly. Back at home, at least he had his friends. Back at home, he could ease his fragmented mind with the awareness that his gang members understood him. But here—who did he have?

"Kid, you think that wimpy little wave of yours is gonna win the crowd over?" the bi-racial girl beside him asked. " _You_ _'_ _ll_ need all the sponsorships you can get; use your head."

Vivian Jinx: his district partner and, as of yesterday, newest archenemy. He would argue back, but he feared he would make a scene; so he bit his tongue and swallowed the insults. Though, admittedly, he _was_ scared of her. She was a few inches taller and five years older, with black hair and putrid dark eyeshadow beneath her cynical, uncongenial eyes. And if she weren't already terrifying enough, thin scars of former lacerations crawled up her arms like creeping vines.

"I _am_ waving just fine," Elias corrected.

"Whatever," Vivian muttered. "I don't even know why I bother caring about you anyway." Then she scratched at a strand of her sunflower-inspired dress, flicking the fabric petal into the air with disgust. "The sooner this little ride ends, the better. I look like an idiot in this thing."

Elias was inclined to agree. "Maybe you should wave?" he suggested in a voice that mocked hers. He confidently stood upright, though behind his mask of backtalk courage he was absolutely petrified.

Vivian scoffed. "No, little boy. I don't desperately need sponsors like you. I thought we went over this on the train, remember?"

Elias _did_ remember Vivian's infinite barrage of abuse, and he didn't like it. "You said you could take care of yourself just fine."

"Yeah, I did. And I'm not letting you, or the careers, or _anyone_ get in my way."

* * *

Roopertutino pointed in the direction of the slowly-approaching colosseum. "This is my first time in the Capitol," the eighteen year old said. "And it might be my last. I'm going to enjoy it as much as I can."

Aryanna nodded. Rooper had a distinguished air of well-mannered respect and subdued strength. Visually, he was a muscle-engraved mountain, a lean but sturdy giant who stood nearly a foot and a half taller than she. Despite his imposing size, though, Aryanna recognized him as a polite guy whose intentions were far less devastating than his formidable looks. Even if his viewpoints were unorthodox; even if he agreed with the games out of sheer militaristic obedience—considering them an understandable punishment—Arya could hardly hate him. He displayed nobility everywhere the careers lacked.

The sixteen year old girl stiffened inside her metallic battle-vest, her pallid blonde hair straightened neatly at her sides. Chunks of coal, like black stalagmites, protruded from her outfit at odd angles, a futuristic arrangement of cold, meteoric shapes.

"We're here," she said, trying to find a balance between fear and confidence. "I guess this is where the smiling and waving starts." She glanced down, away from Rooper and even farther away from the vociferous spectators; admittedly, she was nervous.

The crowd fell into a dizzying spell of exuberant acclamation at the sight of the final tributes. Neither Rooper nor Arya was prepared for their venerated arrival. The boy began to wave—not over-enthusiastically, but with enough self-control that suggested he wasn't merely seeking sponsorships. Then he said, "Don't forget to wave."

Arya caught herself in a trance and straightened; then she smiled and played to the crowd. She spun around in full-panorama of the colosseum, dazzling the entirety of Capitolian onlookers with a view of her feisty athleticism. She gave a sassy half-curtsey before turning to Rooper, fully invigorated. "Are you ready?" she asked him.

"I suppose I'm always ready. Are you?"

"Now I am," she confirmed. "At least, as ready as I'll ever be."

For all twenty-four tributes, that would be the readiest _any_ of them were.

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** If you've submitted a tribute to this fic, what do you think of your tributes district partner. How do you think they'll get along? Do you like the person your tribute's stuck with?

 **Author's Note:** Hopefully I'll be seeing you all very soon, in the dialogue-heavy chapter 10!


	10. Twenty-three Butchers

**Official Website Link!:** http COLON SLASH SLASH nothingcomeswithoutsacrificefanfiction DOT weebly DOT com

So I finally finished the beta version of the website. Lots of updates will come to it (especially on the character pages where you'll be able to learn more than you could have ever wanted to know about any given tribute). Keep in mind, if the website has a tribute picture that doesn't look like the way I described them in the fic, always go with what the fic says! Finding matching pictures for every character was very difficult :P

 **Author's Note:** Finally we start the white room test! This chapter focuses A LOT on (verbal) tribute interactions. Later chapters may take on a more descriptive/backstory approach, but the next few are purely gauged to help the readers get accustomed to the tributes' social side. So enjoy! :)

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

 **Twenty-three Butchers**

* * *

 _The training center._

The building at whose arrival was long-anticipated—at least as far as Amina was concerned—was a cylindrical skyscraper situated in the center of the Capitol. The blue glowing exterior illumination mounted down the circumference of the nineteen-story building imparted a cold-steel, futuristic look; like a UFO stretched to superstructural heights.

Each district was earmarked its own floor inside the high-rise—from the seventh to the nineteenth. Lower floors were reserved for reception, a tribute common area, the basement training suite, the infamous white room, and a slew of other facilities the Capitol deemed important.

The elevator ride to the eighth floor was quick, an ascent unmasked by the all-translucent binding of the sky-driven carriage. Cole imagined it was something like the white room test; but rather, the _clear moving box test_.

The training center accommodations were—almost loathsomely—exquisite. Each tribute floor received its own spacious, circular living room, around which hemispherically unfurled the equally-luxurious dining room, kitchen, bedrooms, and bathrooms. And curving around the front half of the high-ceilinged living room was an all-glass wall, a gigantic window out of which one could, at night, see the sparkling city lights below—a one-hundred and eighty degree vista of Capitolian beauty.

"My, oh my!" Amina clapped her hands rapidly like the quick-paced drumming of a hummingbird's wings. "You both did _so_ well out there! Surely the Capitol loves you!"

"Are you just saying that?" Jade asked earnestly. "Because your enthusiasm is starting to wear off…and it sounds like you're just mocking us, now." The girl looked at Cole, who shrugged and made a "who knows?" face.

"Oh, hush," Amina said, ignoring the girl. "We have _lots_ of prepping to do. Isn't that right, Chromius?"

"Yeah. Here, take these," the mentor said, cutting to the chase. He handed each sibling a finely-tailored battle suit, a skintight, rubbery outfit much like that of their soon-to-be arena attire. "Your stylist gave these to me. The team'll be here shortly to get you all prepared for the white room. In the meantime, Orion wants you to try these on and be ready for when he gets here."

"We need to do this _again?_ " Jade asked.

"You'll be doing this a lot, sweetie," Amina replied in a dainty voice. "You'll be _broadcast_ tonight, after all! Only to the Capitol, of course. In the white room…perhaps if you squint hard enough, you might be able to see the tiny cameras filming you!"

"Don't bet on it," Chromius dissented. "All I remember was the walloping headache I got because the room is so hot and dry."

Cole rubbed his neck. "I-I'm thirsty," he said with immediacy.

Amina offered rescue. "Darling, would water suffice? Where are those Avox brats?" she asked, stepping her way to the kitchen in a huff.

"Tell us more…" Cole said to Chromius. "About the white room."

The mentor was half-surprised to see his pupils even remotely interested in learning about the games—well, at the very least, Cole.

Chromius squinted as though the memories of the white room caused considerable physical pain. "Imagine being buried alive," he said. "But instead of darkness…it's just light. But such bright, _painful-as-anything_ light that you can feel the burning sensation in your eyes the moment you step into that room. And of course, you're hot and tired because they make you wear these over-tight clothes. And with twenty-three other people in there—twenty-three other people who you know are your _enemies_ —you just want to get out of there even faster." The mentor swallowed. Cole, and even Jade, appeared to be listening intently. "The first hour is alright, almost kind of fun. The second…it's like some weird delirium overtakes you. Seeing the faces of twenty-three people who want you _dead_. It's a weird feeling. And the third hour…well, in my games, some of us went so stir-crazy that a lot of us broke off into fist fights. It was like the games had already started."

Amina marched back into the living room. "Chromius, _when_ are the Avoxes supposed to attend to us? There are _none_ here."

Cole swallowed hard, ignoring Amina. _It was like the games had already started._ As though some visceral, uncontrollable urge would transform even the most sane, kind-hearted tribute into a crazed, self-defensive animal. After all, you were surrounded by your twenty-three murderers.

* * *

The rest of the time leading to seven o'clock moved slowly. Again, Cole and Jade underwent a two hour makeover at the hands of Orion and his pack of wild stylists. _"_ _Such beauty!_ _"_ he would proclaim with every aesthetic adjustment. The siblings' only reprieve was the five minute interval during which an unsurprisingly emotionless Peacekeeper ushered them to the vault-like door of the white room.

 _Vault-like_. Cole shivered.

No drinks. No food. No bathroom. No rules.

There _really_ was no going back.

The Peacekeeper uttered an insincere bid of good luck before shutting the slick, glossy white door. The distinct sound of the lock turning served an an audible solidification of their confinement: in that white room, they were as deeply ingrained in the Hunger Games as if they were in the arena, itself. And if it meant no escape—no peaceful, spacious solace—for three interminable hours, then so be it.

Over the next few minutes the remaining tributes were escorted to—and _trapped_ —in the sinister white room. It felt stiflingly compact, so small that all twenty-four adolescents could not fit against its perimeter. There were no chairs or furniture, nor were there any wall hangings or floor coverings. A dazzling—almost head-ache inducing—whiteness glistened from the walls, floor, and ceiling, backlit by the throb of pulsating lights. Every niche of space was polished so neatly that faint globs of human silhouettes could be seen through the mirror-like sheen, lending the unnerving illusion that even _more_ people were crammed into the sardine-inspired room. And if the atmosphere weren't claustrophobic enough, the paranoidal awareness that several nanoscopic cameras were filming the room and back-feeding the footage to the entirety of the Capitol could have driven even the most lucid tribute to the dizzying brink of insanity.

" _Sooo_ _…_ should we get this started, or…?" Hydan Olser rubbed his arms up and down; he was the boy from Six whose sarcastic comments at the reapings were unforgiving.

"What do you want us to do in here?" Jean Trent asked. The career smoothed back his hair, looking unfazed. "I don't plan on sitting down with you all and having a cup of tea."

"Last time I checked," Hydan began, "there isn't any place to sit down in here anyway. Or tea, for that matter."

"We could get to know each other?" Arya piped up.

Vivian Jinx shot daggers at the girl from Twelve. "And what _exactly_ is the point of that? To get all cuddly with each other before we stab each others' brains out in a few days? No thanks."

"Not so much the classiest way of putting it," Kieson whistled.

"The point of it?" Hydan asked. "Well—let's see—we have three hours, and I didn't bring a deck of cards, so I'm open to any other ideas that would be 'more useful' than—at the very least—introducing ourselves. You know, maybe get the chance to know some of these tributes whose brains you're going to stab out?"

Destin Tames adjusted his glasses. "Umm…guys? Aren't we giving the Capitol exactly what they want? For us to fight and start drama?"

" _Aren_ _'_ _t we giving the Capitol exactly what they want?_ " Vivian parroted in a dumb-sounding voice. "Zip it, nerd. I hate the Capitol as much as the rest of us but twenty-four lunatics in one room is obviously gonna start some drama. You're from Three, I thought you would be smart enough to know that."

Although Destin wouldn't dare confront her, his mind brimmed with rage: he did _not_ enjoy having his intelligence mocked.

Rooper cut in, his voice like a tranquilizing—almost omnipotent—proclamation: "I think getting to know each other would be a wise idea."

"Agreed," Hydan muttered. In truth, he wanted nothing more than to relax. But hopefully a series of introductions would help melt away the three hour time lock. "Because, contrary to obvious popular belief,"—he glared at Vivian, and then at Jean—"there isn't much else to do, anyway."

"Well," Jean said. "You're Mr. Talkative, so why don't you start us off? Tell us all about yourself, I'm sure you can't resist."

Hydan rose his eyebrows. "Actually, I think it would make _more_ sense if we went in order by district. The mind is much more likely to remember and thereby categorize tributes through a logical system, rather than haphazardly introducing ourselves in no specific order."

Sandy Chip began cracking his knuckles. "What is this? A psychological examination?" He could feel his "bad" mood overtaking him. The white room and its compressive prostration wore his sanity thin.

"No, it's not an examination. It's actually called 'being smart'," Hydan said, happy to defeat the careers with his sharp-witted tongue; _brains over brawn, this year,_ he reminded himself. "As a matter of fact, I have an IQ of over 200."

"See, you couldn't resist 'introducing yourself'," Jean asserted.

Heracles laughed to himself. " _Heh_ , he got ya there."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm smart," Hydan apologized with flagrant artificiality. Destin swallowed his pride; _he_ was smart, too.

"Shall we get on with the introductions?" Arabella asked. The girl from Eight adjusted her bow. "I'm sure things will settle once we get started?"

"Sure, Princess," Vivian scoffed. "District One: well, Jean, looks like you're up."

" _Mmm_ …actually, I believe the phrase is 'ladies first'," Sierra Kyles began. "You know, the thing they say during every reapings…" The pyromaniacal girl sounded distant, as though her consciousness were elsewhere.

"Isn't the District One girl Ambrosia? The girl with silver hair?" Destin asked; he remembered her reapings from the painfully long tribute recap on the train.

"Yep," Hydan said. "Ambrosia, you're up. Tell us all about yourself, won't you?"

Instant attention was drawn to 'the girl with silver hair'. She twisted her face a little, not saying anything. Then she shrugged, looking surprisingly unaffected by the twenty-three owl-eyed stares.

"I know we're here for three hours," Hydan said, "Which is gonna _feel_ like all day, but, you know, we don't have all day here, so you want to say hi now, or…?"

Ambrosia tugged at the thin ends of her hair, looking slightly hurt; but she bandaged the emotional wound with the expectation of Hydan's ignorance.

"Are you really that inconsiderate?" Oliver asked, quick to defend his fellow outcasts. "She's mute. Didn't your mentor tell you that?"

"I can't say I really paid enough attention," Hydan openly admitted. Then he said, in a placating voice suggestive that Ambrosia were hard of hearing. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were mute. Okay?"

Ambrosia sensed the sarcastic undertones in his voice, but she shelved her sign language and merely made a mental note that the boy from Six was a real pain. At the very least, the girl was happy to escape opinionated judgment of her life story. She wouldn't have to tell everyone how ashamed her mother and father were to parent a mute child—a _career_ , at that. She wouldn't have to tell them how she worked as a slave in her parents' mansion, or the gruesome details of the inch-long scar beneath her right eye. And she certainly wouldn't have to tell them that her hair was dyed silver to spite her parents.

"Well, then it's my turn," Jean Trent cut in. "You all know me. I'm Jean, your District One male. That's right," he said, "District _One_." And he held up a lone finger to offer a graphic representation of his virtuosity. Then with his finger, he pointed toward an invisible camera, "I want everyone in the Capitol to know that I'm ready, and I'm playing to win this." Then he pushed back his already slicked hair.

Ambrosia rolled her eyes, hoping Jean wasn't pointing to a camera, but rather to thin air, looking like an idiot.

"Really?" Vivian asked. "We're not even one day into this and you're already playing to the sponsors? Save it for the private sessions."

"Whose side are you on?" Jean asked. "You've badmouthed _everyone_ in this room…careers, non-career losers…"

"I'm on my _own_ side. I don't need _any_ one." Vivian assured. Her raccoon-like black eyeliner made her look dangerously unhinged—and _not_ to be messed with.

Annie Wickham changed the beat of the conversation. "I'd love to know more about you guys; why don't we say our ages, too? And maybe more about ourselves? Not just an introduction, but,"—she looked up as though wondrously guided by the eye-straining lights overhead—"a lot _more_ than that." All the while, she waved and gestured emphatically with her hands.

Sandy scoffed at the girl's over-exuberant verbalization. "Well, I'm glad one of us is happy to be stuck in this _stupid room_ ," he said with an offbeat tempo in his voice. Jay, his district partner, watched him curiously— _studied_ him closely. The seemingly-shrinking room was getting to him; locking him into a state of mental paralysis, where his insanity dominated.

"Alright—fine," Jean continued. "I'm eighteen, and proud of it." He walked into the center of the room—a short trek—and held his arms out wide. "And I don't need any of you to love me, or even like me. Because I love _myself_."

"You've made that clear," Heracles said with low-key humor.

"Jean, what's that?" Annie asked, pointing to the career's back pocket.

"What? Err…" The boy quickly stuffed the protruding edge to a piece of fabric deep into his pocket, clearing his throat. "Nothing. Nothing, it's just my token."

"It looked like a stuffed animal, or something," the girl from Ten said.

Jean rounded on Josaline. "Who asked _your_ opinion?!"

"Woah, woah," Annie said, her hands gesticulating like an overenthusiastic saleswoman. "Jean, you _don_ _'_ _t_ need to get all moody."

Josalina coughed. "I was just curious what's in your pocket."

The boy from One massaged his face. "I don't have time for this."

"It's fine," Vivian said. "Don't worry about it, Jean. I'm sure we all have stuffed animals in our pockets, anyway."

" _You don_ _'_ _t know anything!_ _"_ Jean roared.

"Everyone," Rooper said in his room-silencing voice, the social glue that held their conversations from falling to complete instability. "Please, we need to stop this bickering." He glanced at Jean. "I think it's time for District Two."

"Ladies first," Sierra reminded.

Jadelyn Spera took an imperceptibly small, defensive step back. "I'm Jade Spera…I'm fourteen. And this is Cole, my brother. And the only reason we're here is because the reapings were rigged."

"That's a lie," Sandy said. "They weren't rigged at all."

"Maybe because volunteers were _allowed_ in District Four," Jade retaliated. "And in District One. And everywhere else…" The emotion behind Jade's words made her voice quiver, pushing toward the tremulous edge of crying and sheer emotional dishevelment. "But not in Two. Can you explain that?"

"You're just looking for pity," Jean assured.

" _Can you explain that?!_ _"_ Jade demanded, tears welling in her eyes.

"She _is_ right," Kieson said. The winsome boy from Ten had studied the political system of the Capitol with ardent passion; so there was nothing difficult distinguishing sheer unluckiness from the premeditated trickery of the President and her fellow higher-ups.

"None of it matters," Sandy said. "My escort said those tributes from Two are _rebels_."

"And why is that a bad thing?" Hydan said, eager to offer his own intellect. "Last time I checked, that leaves only four careers who actually _enjoy_ the games."

Vivian laughed, too loudly to sound genuine. "Jade and Cole could very well be playing all of us like fiddles; saying that they're 'rebels' when they're not. And…even if they _are_ rebels…they still represent district _Two_."

"So?" Annie asked.

"Let's see…" Vivian began. "How many people in here have a family member, a great grandfather, I don't know, a _friend_ …or _someone_ important in their life who was reaped and eventually murdered by a District _Two_ tribute?"

A few people meekly rose their hands, as though subjecting themselves to something they didn't entirely agree with, but couldn't disagree with.

"Uh-huh." Vivian rose her own hand. "I know how you feel. So then, can someone tell me _why_ we're just rolling out the red carpet for these people?"

"That logic _is_ a bit flawed," Annie said, too bubbly to sound argumentative.

Vivian smirked. "No—"

"If anything, I'm _impressed_." Heracles interjects, receiving a nasty glare from the Eleven girl. "Being rebels and living in Two must be…torture." He crossed the center of the room and stood next to Cole. "And you can't blame them for what other tributes from Two have done, perhaps over a hundred years ago; that's just stupid. Like most of your arguments."

"I'm just going to stop talking," Vivian said. "I'm in this for myself, anyway. I don't need anything from you guys."

"Good," Heracles said, matter-of-factly. Then he looked at Cole, then at Jade, and offered a reassuring nod.

"Th-thank you…" Cole said in half-voice. It felt unfathomably good to have support; support that wasn't even asked for, but charitably extended.

"That's right," Heracles said. "Cole and Jade are with…me." The boy from Seven was pleased with himself; though admittedly it was a gamble. Cole and Jade would surely be spotlit in the arena—being the obvious and controversial rebels—which could very well lend support and limelight to Heracles, as well. And if the siblings from Two were a detriment, or viewed with gross negativity by the public, they would be easy to finish off—since they're untrained rebels, of course!—and Heracles would be the _hero._

"Well, that's cute," Hydan said, his words dry with unhidden implications of boredom. "Moving along now. District Three…" And he glanced at Sierra. " _Ladies first_."

Annie Wickham smiled. "That's me. My name's Annie, and I'm sixteen." Customarily, she was not short of expressive hand motions.

"And you're _way_ too excited to be here…" Hydan noted.

"No," Annie corrected. "I'm just trying to make the best of a bad situation—you always have to look at life that way, or else you'll be unhappy! No sense spending what could be my last days with a frown."

"A little unorthodox," Kieson admitted. "But hey, why not?"

"It's just naivety," Jean said, his words laconic with self-surety. Ambrosia rolled her eyes.

"I just want to get back to my family," Annie said. "I don't want them to lose me. My brothers and sister…it, it would destroy them." All _four_ of them: Hunter, Levi, Johanna, and little Luka, too.

Cole glanced at Jade; she looked back at him, each sibling's face forlorn with an imploring "stay strong".

"Next up," Hydan said, unofficially denoting himself the coordinator of their introductions.

Annie nudged her district partner. Destin rubbed his nose, trying to clear his allergies.

"I—I'm Destin," the boy said with nasally unclarity. "And I'm sixteen. And I'm from District Three, so—"

"So you're a four-eyed nerd, of course," Vivian spat. "From Three. Stereotypical much?"

The boy shied away. "It's only because I like to read…" Then he took his glasses off. "See, I don't _need_ to wear them."

"You must be very smart," Arabella noted. The wide-eyed, bow-wearing girl from Eight smiled brightly. "And I bet you're a great tinkerer, aren't you?"

"Well…" Destin tried to smother his creeping grin, but any compliment to his intelligence was heartwarming flattery. It was _always_ good when someone acknowledged you, especially when acknowledgement was needed most. "Well, I guess I'm pretty good," he said modestly, blushing.

Arabella—the eighteen year old with a fifteen year old's curious face—put a finger to her chin and giggled.

When Destin was about to continue, Hydan said, "Fascinating. Anyway, let's move on." And the boy from Six removed his gaze from Destin, bluntly ignoring him.

 _He feels threatened by me_ , Destin told himself. But, to the boy from Three, _Hydan_ was the most intimidating person in that room. An IQ of 200? Destin's biggest fear had come true: there _were_ people smart enough to rival his own intelligence. His only skill was meaningless…

"In that case, I'm Jay," the girl from Four said. "And I'm seventeen." The pale girl with jet black hair rose her left arm, covered by her long-sleeved battle suit. Then she unfurled the elasticity and revealed her mechanical—but uncannily lifelike—prosthetic arm.

"Woah…" Kieson said.

"I designed it myself," Jay started, her words not prideful, but simply declaratory. "I lost my arm in a fire…a _long_ time ago." Jay contemplated if revealing this weakness was a mistake; but if anything, it made her look _stronger_. After all, she independently designed a prothetic arm; surely that would play well with the sponsors, and perhaps allow her to sink beneath the radar of her fellow tributes who now saw her as "weak and no longer a threat". Jay inwardly smiled: being smart, conniving, and expertly in-tune with others' emotions made her an insidiously dangerous girl.

Ambrosia respected her fellow career; it was reassuring to know there were other people out there who could overcome a hardship.

"That's…actually really cool," Destin said, admiring her work; though, part of him fell even deeper into the depths of self-pity. Jay was smart _and_ a tinkerer. His talents were inconsequential.

"Oh—heh, well thanks," she said. Watching Destin's disheartened face made it clear he felt threatened.

"I guess I'm up," Sandy said. "I'm Sandy Chip…eighteen. And I volunteered for the games, and I plan to win just like my mom did."

"Who's your mom?" Jean asked.

"Cressie, Cressie Chip. She won the 278th."

"We _watched_ those," Heracles said, still at Cole's side. "On the train…our mentor made us watch some highlights from past games. The 278th was one of 'em." Then he looked at Sierra. "Right?"

"Mmhm…" she answered.

"Well… _good_ ," was all Sandy said. Jay noted that the career's voice was calmer, and he had minutes-since abandoned his knuckle-cracking. Perhaps the bipolar boy had finally crossed the threshold to his "positive side". "My mom joined those games to win, and I plan to do the same."

Inside, Jay knew Sandy was _nothing_ like his mother. One of the virtues of understanding human psychology was the resulting ability to classify people in distinct subsections, according to their aspirations and flaws. Despite his bipolarity, Sandy was—almost ironically—too one-dimensional to be a victor. Cressie Chip was a mastermind, a backstabber with an infinite supply of crafty stratagems—like Jay, herself. Sandy was merely "in it to win it"; too self-absorbed with his own title of "career" to actually pursue the path to success. And although Jay thought the games were sadistic, she also knew they were intriguingly clever— _just like her_. If winning required keen perception and fiery manipulation, she would be happy to give the Capitol exactly that.

"The son of a victor," Arabella started, giving a humble nod as though affirming his superiority. "That's impressive. So, you must know what you're doing." Then she gave a childlike grin before perfecting the angle of her hair bow.

"Yes, obviously," Sandy said.

Hydan coughed. "It doesn't necessarily mean he knows what he's doing…"

"He still does, better than most of us," Destin argued. Jay watched the boys; it was clear they valued their intelligence and opinions.

"Please," Vivian moaned. "Sandy's just a drop in the bucket compared to the rebels from Two over here."

Sandy's eyes bulged. "Excuse me?!"

"So you're finally agreeing that they _are_ actual rebels?" Heracles asked.

"I'm not speaking, remember?" Vivian said. Then she extended a singular, choice finger at the boy from Seven, deliberately hiding her lips in an "I'm not speaking" kind of taunt.

"What if they _are_ faking it, though?" Josaline asked. The girl from Ten shrugged. "You don't really hear of rebels from a career district…and if you do, usually they escape to a different district, don't they?"

Annie shifted her weight, looking devastatingly unsure. "That's true…"

"Yes…it _is_ ," Hydan added.

Cole looked mortified. "B-but…why would we be faking it?"

"Maybe to gain support," Jean said. "From the non-careers? Or maybe you're the twist this year. Mystery 'rebels' from District Two? Who knows, but no one's gonna believe you were both just magically reaped because the Capitol suddenly _decided_ to rig it against rebels. Because if that was their plan, they would've tossed in rebels from every district and just called it a lame all-rebel year. But no…something's off, here."

"But," Heracles countered, "if rebels in career districts are so 'impossible to find', then they wouldn't be able to have an all-rebel year, anyway." Inside, Heracles assumed the Spera children were targeted with specific political intent. "Maybe their mom murdered a Peacekeeper or something? Then _boom_ , her kids are put into the games as payback. Doesn't mean they're the twist, or super special spies, or compulsive liars…"

"Thank you," Jade said, earnest and exasperated.

Kieson blinked. "Wait, did your mom murder a Peacekeeper?"

" _No_ ," Cole and Jade answered in unison.

"Well, you're pretty famous" Jay said.

"W-wait…" Cole started. "Really? What do you mean?"

"Oh, yes!" Arabella agreed. "The first thing we were told on the train was about the rebels from District Two! Wasn't it, Lezar?" she looked at her district partner and smiled encouragingly, as if to say "you don't need to be shy".

The boy swallowed and nodded. "Oh—um, mhm, yes."

"But that's a good thing," Arabella smiled at Cole. "At least, for you it is! You'll make lots of friends here, I'm sure."

"Ugh—I hope…" Jade groaned, glancing around the room, which felt infinitely smaller than it had just moments before. There was so much animosity—and so much directed toward _her_ —that she found it hard to believe they'd have as many friends as Arabella had prognosticated. But still, Jade appreciated the girl's words, and her optimism. "Thank you, though."

Arabella giggled a flitting _teehee_.

"It's so hot," Hydan complained, fanning himself.

The room _did_ feet warmer. Ambrosia drummed her fingers against her skull, the unsettling effects of claustrophobia finally sinking in. The entire room appeared to gleam more brightly, the undulance of intense light burning her eyes until they were begging for mercy. And the uncomfortably close proximity of everyone—and their hateful words—made it hard to take a full, robust breath. Perhaps it was just her own mind playing tricks of asphyxiation? The girl froze up, as though paralyzed.

 _Everyone_ started to feel the effects of the room. Their minds wandered into the abstract.

"Should we continue with the introductions?" Rooper asked, his stentorian voice a stabilizing anchor to reality.

"I feel like I'm going to faint," Arabella said, frowning. She looked at Lezar with pleading eyes, and the boy shuffled awkwardly to her side, offering his arm for her stability.

Cole took a deep breath. _The first hour is alright, almost kind of fun. The second_ _…_ _it_ _'_ _s like some weird delirium overtakes you. Seeing the faces of twenty-three people who want you dead. It_ _'_ _s a weird feeling. And the third hour_ _…_ _well, in my games, some of us went so stir-crazy that a lot of us broke off into fist fights. It was like the games had already started._

He glanced at Vivian, whose vehement hatred for him and his sister went unmasked. Then at Jean, whose heavily muscled frame lusted for blood. Next at Sandy, whose undying passion to follow in his mother's footsteps was his promise to the world. And at Heracles, whose friendship might get the boy from Seven killed. And finally at Jade, his sister, who might die at that hand of a tribute who stood no more than ten feet away from her at that very moment.

Reality struck like lightning.

Indeed, the games had already started.

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** Of the 6 non-Cole/Jade tributes who have "introduced" themselves, who is your favorite? And can you spot any (early) alliances?

 **Author's Note:** Obviously not everyone's tributes got the same amount of attention in this chapter. For instance, Hydan, Jean, and Vivian were definitely the most spotlit tributes with about 8 others being fairly spotlit. If your tribute didn't receive much attention, DON'T panic! It would've been painfully difficult for the reader to keep track of 24 tributes in one chapter, but you can bet that over the coming chapters I'll be highlighting different characters, giving different characters bigger roles, delving into different characters' backstories, etc, so that by the time the games do start, every tribute should see about the same amount of attention.

Anyway, hope to update soon! See you all :)


	11. Abysmal Actualities

**Website Info!:** The website hasn't seen many major updates this past week, but a few are in the works. Stay tuned! The website can be found here:

http COLON SLASH SLASH nothingcomeswithoutsacrificefanfiction DOT weebly DOT com

 **Author's Note:** So happy to get this chapter out today, had a really busy week and was afraid I wouldn't be able to! Anyway, I've realized I have this really bad habit of saying "Ok, this chapter will probably be about 3,000 words" then BAM, I'm having way too much fun writing, and the next thing I know it's 5,000 words. Oops :x Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

 **Abysmal Actualities**

* * *

"My name is Fia," the girl from Five said, no apprehension in her voice—it had been difficult staying so quiet, when all she wanted was to speak and verbalize her opinions. Her curly red hair haloed her head like a fiery mane, and a creeping smile formed on her lips in a giddy, inviting curl. "And I'm fifteen. And I'm willing to give these games the best shot I can." She pinpointed her gaze ahead, on an invisible tuft of air, as though hoping to direct her comment at the nearest dust-speck videocamera.

"Uncommon to see a non-career with such fervor," Rooper commented, no condescension—but rather, intrigue—in his tone.

Fia smiled at him; a small smile at first, eventually blossoming into an runaway, full-fledged grin. "I mean, I guess. I'm just, I dunno,"—she shrugged—"here to play the game, I guess." In truth, she just wanted to appear strong, especially for the sake of the sponsors, who were probably counting their ready-to-spend money at that very moment. So many past tributes— _dead_ tributes—had entered the games exuding such pure abhorrence toward the Capitol that they had already condemned themselves the moment the words "I hate…" had slipped from their ignorant mouths.

"I'm sure you'll do well in the arena, then," Willow Sanders noted.

"Well, thanks, heh heh." Fia smiled.

"No problem." The boy from Nine lightly tapped his foot, the kind of _pat-pat-pat_ that went unnoticed unless you deliberately paid attention.

"Tell us more!" Annie Wickham said jubilantly.

"Oh, okay, well…" The girl from Five braced her palms for the kind of lively hand motions that fell commonplace in Annie's energetic wheelhouse. "I have a sister, she's older than me. Just old enough to scrape by out of the reapings. And, well, my whole family—me included—are a bunch of healers. Like doctors." She glanced again in the general direction of what she hoped was a camera. "I'm good with medicines, that kind of stuff. My parents love what they do, so does my sister. Personally, I'd rather do something a little more exciting." Being adept at medicinal knowledge was, truthfully, dull and boring.

Jade drifted into contemplation; if that girl's curative prowess was even half as developed as she claimed it to be, Fia might prove a valuable ally. "Impressive…you should teach me, sometime?" Jade said, "sometime" alluding to the training days.

"Oh, sure," Fia beamed at Jade. It was good to feel valuable, to feel like she had purpose to be in charge. "Hmm, what else…" Fia began to ponder. She was about to mention her bad knee, or her chronic suffering from hay-fever allergies, but swallowed the divulgence and instead uttered, "Uhh, that's about it, for me. Boring stuff, I guess."

"No," Annie shook her head. "Not boring. It's always interesting to hear about other people."

"Why are we being so nice to each other all of a sudden?" Vivian cut across. "If I wasn't going insane enough in here…"

Elias bit his lip for the umpteenth time that evening; Vivian was characteristically grating on his nerves, even more than usual. "Because we're human beings, not animals," the twelve year old said. "People want to get to know each other, understand each other…I dunno." The boy winced imperceptibly, feeling hypocritical. After all, there was no one for whom he would reveal his unguarded side…even if he _wanted_ to; even if he _wanted_ someone to just understand him for once in his life.

"Oh, really?" Vivian asked. "You have a lot of nerve talking to your _district partner_ like that."

Elias rolled his eyes at her, looking bold. Though, beneath his outward, rock-solid confidence, his stomach was flitting about like a basket of tempestuous butterflies. Vivian was _terrifying_.

"Why don't you think people should be nice to me?" Fia asked to Vivian, sounding defensive. "Just because they don't want to be bitter like you, doesn't mean you get to treat us like crap." In the girl's eyes, Vivian had prematurely dubbed herself the alpha female—some sort of faultless, patronizing queen. A Queen who desperately needed to be dethroned.

"No, little girl." Vivian's voice had taken on a hauntingly assuaged undertone, like that of a frosty-eyed serial killer. "I don't care about any of you enough to _treat_ you like anything."

"But you _are_ ," Fia countered. "You act like you hate every—"

"I'll _tell_ you what I hate," Vivian snapped, raising an unwavering hand to silence the younger girl. "I hate when other people tell me how I'm acting. Or, how I'm supposed to act. Surely, little Miss Fia, you don't know anyone—any stupid, fifteen year old girls—daring enough to challenge me, do you?"

Fia merely smirked, her temper masked by disinterest. At the sight of the freckle-faced girl's dull expression, Heracles chuckled, cupping a hand over his mouth like an inspirited onlooker whose contributions consisted of adrenaline-fueled " _ohhhh!_ "s when an impressive comeback was delivered.

"Am I the only one surprised there's still twenty-four of us alive?" Kieson whistled.

 _It was like the games had already started._ Cole felt inclined to agree.

"On that happy note," Hydan said, yawning, "Let's move on."

Everyone heard the timid sound of a throat being cleared. "I'm Byren," the small boy piped up in his high-pitched voice. "Byren Sauvy. I'm fifteen years old, from District Five. And-and I don't really know what to tell you about myself…" He couldn't decide what embarrassed him more: his squeaky, mouse-like voice—the common source of people's frustration—or his humiliating life story. What would he say? _Hey guys! I_ _'_ _m Byren, I have no friends. At least, no friends who don_ _'_ _t call me a bisexual freak behind my back, which isn_ _'_ _t a terribly inaccurate insult. Back in District Five, you_ _'_ _ll find me at home_ _—_ _or, well_ _—_ _yeah, always at home, since I_ _'_ _m too scared to leave my house anymore._ All the while, Byren heard his falsetto thinking-voice, a shrillness that aggravated him. Everyone probably hated him for it, didn't they?

"Don't worry," Fia offered encouragingly. She was more than familiar with Byren's inherent shyness. "No one here will judge you, and if they do, they'll have to go through _me_." She stole a quick glance in Vivian's direction.

"Oh, well, thank you…" Byren started, clacking his fingers anxiously. "Where to start…well, I'm an only child. And, uh, my parents work in the factory. And, I like school. I, I think it's fun…" He patched together whatever non-embarrassing autobiographical information he could scrape up. "Oh! And I love science. And making things…tools, that kind of stuff." The boy absent-mindedly touched his neck, as though fearing his mosquito voice would shatter the sanity of his listeners.

"See?" Fia said. "You must be very talented."

"What kind of tools do you make?" Destin asked. Again, another tribute to rival his own crafty intelligence.

"I dunno," Byren shrugged. "Nothing major. Just little gadgets…um, anything mechanical, I guess."

Destin nodded, offering a faint smile; admittedly, Byren seemed much less threatening than Hydan and Jay.

"I'm getting tired," Sandy said. "Let's speed this up."

"What would speeding this up do?" Hydan asked contemptuously. "We're still stuck in here for three hours."

"Yes," Sandy muttered, rubbing his temples as though trying to dissolve his brewing mental instability. "But this is really just getting annoying. Why is it so _bright_ in here?" He threw his hands up in complaint, muttering profanities under his breath.

"It's okay," Jay said reassuringly. She put a hand on her district partner's shoulder. "We'll be out of here soon enough." The career from Four had a festering headache of her own, but she stated no qualms. Sandy, she realized, was showing extreme weakness; the white room test was only three hours, how did he expect to retain his sanity during the games?

"But he's right," Hydan said, blowing out a thin line of air between his teeth. "Let's move on. I think it's time for—"

"District Six," Fia said, yearning to take charge. Self-silence had never been her comrade. "Ladies first!" she added with a snap of her fingers.

The frizzy-haired girl straightened her hunched stance. "I'm Poison," she said quietly. "My real name's Jade, but…" Then she made the kind of face suggesting she had just eaten something disgusting. "You can call me Poison. I'm fourteen," the girl continued. She was tall for her age. Then her shoulders twitched nervously, her whole body convulsing with undetectable shakiness.

"Are you okay?" Byren asked her. He could tell she was nervous, and he felt bad.

"I…I'm _fine_ ," Poison said quickly.

"You're twitching," Jean snorted.

"I-I…" Paranoia began to overtake her; that boy was judging her, wasn't he? All twenty-three of them were probably laughing miserably on the inside.

"It's alright," Arabella said calmly, her eyes twinkling. "We're not here to scare you."

"Actually," Jean interjected. "We _are_ in the Hunger Games, so I kind of _am_ trying to scare you…"

Arabella winked. "Such a career thing to say."

"Oh, stop it," Oliver muttered, glaring at Jean. "Just because people are different from you, doesn't make you better." A sensitive spot in his emotions began to ache.

"What are you even talking about?" Jean asked defensively. "I didn't even say I was better than anyone. Sheesh, for a girl who pretends her hardest to be a guy, you sure do get moody."

Oliver narrowed his eyes. "Oh, that's it—"

"Stop, guys," Fia frowned. "Seriously."

Poison was just happy to be alleviated from the scrutiny of her fellow tributes—all of those tributes out to judge her, out to _get_ her. They would probably ask her about her brother, wouldn't they?! And the way he volunteered for the games, only to get slaughtered on the third day. Thinking about him made her want to burst into tears, but instead she released a clenched, teeth-gritted squeak.

Everyone drew their attention to the girl. "Woah, she makes bird noises," Vivian said.

"Shut up, Vivian," Fia said. "Poison, are you okay?"

The tribute from Six had her lips pressed tightly shut, nodding at Fia with a pained look strewn across her face. She could feel the wild, undulating heartbeats rising in her chest, the foreshadowing symptoms of a panic attack. She just wanted to _hit someone_. "I said…I'm _fine!_ "

"Woah, girl," Heracles whispered, his eyes wide.

"Seriously, this girl needs to _chill_ ," Jean scorned.

" _I told you_ ," Poison said gnashingly, seething with anger as her torso hunched and her muscles began to spasm. " _I AM FINE!_ _"_

Everyone fell silent. Even Jean and Vivian kept their mouths closed, watching the borderline-psychotic girl in all her fury. Her face was boiling red, and her fists were clenched in little, unstable balls.

Hydan coughed. "Um, I guess I'm next to introduce myself…"

But no one took their eyes off Poison, not even Hydan. The girl's fury appeared to slowly dispel, like an air-mattress losing its shape. The room continued its silence until Annie finally said, "Hydan, go on…tell us about yourself."

And the room snapped back to normalcy.

"No thanks," Jean said. "I'd rather not listen to Mr. IQ tell us how amazing he is."

Hydan smiled smugly. "Well, you know, it's true. One time, I took an IQ test and—"

"You got a 200 on it," Oliver finished. "Haven't we heard this already?"

Kieson scratched his head, watching Hydan meticulously. "Dare I say, that boy goes on like a broken record."

"How old were you when you took it?" Arabella wondered with wide-eyed awe.

"Fourteen," Hydan said proudly.

Elias shook his head. "No way."

"Impressive," Roopertutino said respectfully.

Destin openly rolled his eyes. "Are IQ tests even a good measure of intelligence?" he asked innocently.

"Considering it stands for ' _intelligence_ quotient', yes, I would say it's a good measure of _intelligence_ ," Hydan shot back.

Fia scrunched up her face. "No animosity, guys!"

In that moment, Byren had to admit—despite his social incompetence—that Fia was an amazing district partner.

"Regardless," Rooper added, his resonant voice silencing the clamor. "It's an impressive feat."

Ambrosia wanted to slap the boy from Twelve; Rooper's calm respectfulness made him _too_ nice. Or perhaps, she just loathed Hydan too much. That big-headed narcissist had no right to mock her disability.

"Shall we continue?" Fia asked. "To District Seven?"

Hydan wanted to say more, to divulge every fine, intricate detail about his life. But he was too tired to speak—too tired in _general_ —so he merely shrugged and looked at Sierra.

The fire-haired girl stood with a gentle, almost promiscuous smile gracing her lips. "I'm Sierra," she said, her voice sounding slightly far-off. She looked at no one in particular as she spoke. "I'm seventeen. My Dad is the mayor of my district," she said, a lingering trill in her voice. She caught Arabella's youthful glance and winked at her.

"So, does that mean you're wealthy, then?" Fia asked curiously.

Sierra shrugged. "I guess."

" _Ooh,_ very nice," Kieson said.

Sierra turned to him, playing with her hair and recoiling abashedly. " _Aww_ —well, thanks." And she bit back a smile, turning sideways so he could only see her profile.

Jay could see right through this girl: she used flirtation, or perhaps some uncouth derivative of it, as her crutch. Always winking, or smiling with lascivious intent, or adjusting her crimson hair until it formed the perfect frame to highlight her face.

"What's that?" Josaline asked. The girl from Ten pointed toward Sierra's right shoulder, where the neckline of her outfit was disheveled and uneven.

" _Oh_ _—_ _!_ _"_ Sierra quickly straightened her uniform, concealing the trailing edge of a rust-colored burn mark. "Nothing," she spat quickly. She hated herself for so easily revealing one of her normally-hidden marks of masochism.

"Anything that a person quickly hides after saying 'nothing' is obviously hiding something," Hydan remarked.

"Look, it's a _burn_ mark, happy?" she lashed out. Hydan was annoyingly inconsiderate, but she despised herself most of all. Everything unorthodox in her life—her sexual deviance, her pyromaniacal obsession with fire— was the result of her imperfections as a human being. "So I like fire, what's the big deal?"

"Nothing," Josaline frowned. "I just wanted to know what it was."

Sierra sighed, and Heracles rose his eyebrows. As her district partner, he had never seen her flare up with this biting hysteria; rather, he was used to her playing with his hair or complimenting his looks.

Jay noted Heracles' confusion. "Fire is intriguing," the career said, trying to prod more information out of the girl. "What draws you to it?"

Sierra bit her lip. "I dunno."

Jay narrowed her eyes indistinguishably; _everything_ had a reason.

Arabella fanned herself. "I'm so hot."

"How terribly vain," Kieson noted.

The girl from Eight rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth and forcing out a giggle. "Well, you know what I mean."

"Can we get her some water?" Byren asked concernedly.

"They're only gonna open the door for emergencies," Jean said. "So no."

"I feel faint," Arabella frowned, leaning against the wall. She felt the familiar light-headedness that often preceded her spells of dizzying unconsciousness.

Lezar wanted to assist her, but he felt helpless. She was the nicest district partner he could have asked for, but his lackluster social skills left him standing self-consciously, feeling too awkward to do or say anything.

"You okay?" Annie asked her, traversing the short distance across the room. She looked at Arabella, who returned her gaze with clouded eyes. "I'm here to help."

"Just need to breath," Arabella said, offering an assuring smile. "Thank you, though." Then she took a few deep, meditative breaths. "Carry on—no need to worry about me!"

Hydan yawned again. "Alright, good. Anyway, _Heracles_ is up."

"The guy who's defending the careers from Two," Vivian scoffed.

The word "career" rung in Cole's ears like an impossible-to-pronounce foreign word. Had Vivian really just referred to _him_ as a career?

"Hey now," Heracles said defensively. "You don't have to hate me just because I'm trying to show kindness, something you're obviously not accustomed to." Then he gave the entire room a wide sweep with his eyes. "Oh, I'm Heracles, by the way. And I'm fifteen, from District Seven. I know, fascinating stuff."

"Not at all, actually," Vivian said.

Heracles smirked. "Sorry to disappoint you, dear."

Fia began to laugh, quietly at first, bringing a cupping hand to her mouth. But then her rumbling transitioned into a full-bodied chortle, a loud cackle that was hard to ignore without smiling.

"What's so funny?" Heracles queried.

Then Annie joined in, for no obvious reason, showering the room with an ever-intensifying laugh of her own.

Even quiet Byren couldn't help the curving tug at the corners of his lips. Somewhere deep within the girls' strange, nonsensical _weirdness_ , coupled by their overly-infectious laughter, he found the voice to quietly titter as well.

"Why are we all laughing at nothing?" Hydan asked, his face unamused with deadpan disinterest.

Arabella spread her palms, beginning to giggle also. " _I have no idea,_ " she admitted, though she too added her own dainty-voiced flavor into the ensemble of inexplicable laughter.

Heracles smiled confusedly. "Um, Fia? What are you laughing at?" he asked, trying to withhold his own oncoming bout of unsourced laughter.

Fia's face was bright red. _"_ _I don_ _'_ _t know!_ _"_ And her guffawing continued without foreseen end. Several of the quieter tributes couldn't help but smile, and soon almost half of the room was engaged in an uproarious harmony of chuckles and tee-hees.

"Stop, stop this!" Sandy commanded, as though he were a vacuum responsible for sucking up the fun of human interaction.

"What am I missing?" Jean asked with a scowl. "You kids are crazy."

"Sorry," Fia said, half-gasping for a full breath. "I don't know what came over me! Maybe it's just the room? I think we're all feeling a little light-headed. Heracles made me laugh, and I just _couldn_ _'_ _t_ stop, and…" Her voice sank. She was used to being the "wacky girl who laughed explosively at things that weren't even funny".

"Well, I'm glad that's over with," Hydan said.

"Fia, you were making me _laugh_." Annie wiped a humor-induced tear from her eye.

It was strange to find comedy at the most dire of times. Destin could only wonder if it was the overwrought mind's _need_ for stress release. Like when a person's down-spiraling life crosses the threshold to the illogical margin where everything just becomes laughable.

Rooper cleared his throat. "I think Heracles was introducing himself."

"Yeah," the boy from Seven confirmed. "Anyway, I—"

Then Lezar jumped back, stumbling into Vivian. "Woah!" he said. "What are doing?!"

Sierra quickly reeled in her hands. During the laughing fit, the two had used each others' shoulders as stabilizers; now, Sierra was reaching to grab the small of Lezar's back. "Sorry," she muttered. She enjoyed touching people, showing her feely side. Boys, girls, young or old. She _enjoyed_ contact, especially the inappropriate kind. Sometimes, it was just fun to freak people out.

"Um—okay," Lezar said awkwardly. Indeed, he _was_ freaked out.

"You people are nuts," Jean uttered. "Straight out of the looney bin. We got Fia losing her mind. Poison's a psycho. And now we have the Hunger Games slut! You people will be fun to kill, really."

"What did you call me?!" Sierra started, riled and teeming with a burst of red-hot rage.

"Guys, can we please just stop this?" Josaline asked. Then she rubbed her forehead. "I have such a headache, and…"

"Yes, I agree!" Heracles said. "Finally. Um, well, there isn't much to know about me. The Capitol…is actually a pretty cool place. Though I'm scared for the games. I,"—and then he put on a shame-ridden face—"I'm afraid to die. Like… _really_ scared. And…and I know I'm not overreacting…because I'll never have the talent you guys have." He pointed from Jean to Destin, then from Jay to Hydan. All the while, his forehead was crinkled with emotional pain. "I'm no killer. I'm not smart. I'm just…scared. I just want to get back home." And then he released a long, heavy sigh. Everyone stumbled into an awkward, pensive silence. A few of the more sympathetic tributes responded with heartfelt looks, as though their eyes offered apology.

But inside, Heracles was laughing. He wasn't useless, as he had depicted; he was a strategist, and had enough skill wielding weapons to feel relatively comfortable in battle. He had played to the sponsors, complimenting their Capitol, and he had left the door wide open for an unexpectedly dazzling performance during the private sessions.

"I-I'm sorry," Cole offered. It was the least he could say to support his new-found friend, and potential ally.

"Thanks," Heracles answered with downcast apprehension. The Spera siblings were kind-hearted, he realized, and perhaps a little too trusting. Admittedly, he foresaw a budding camaraderie. But if they were—in _any_ way—a disservice to his gameplay, he would have no choice but to retract their friendship, and sign the dotted line with blood-lettered permanence.

Annie frowned. "It's alright, Heracles. No need to be down on yourself. Positivity, remember?"

Heracles simply nodded, his face riddled with signs indicative of self-demoralization. Then Arabella winced, pushing herself away from her wall support and standing straight; her bout of dizziness had since passed. "Who's next for introductions?" she asked. "Is it me?"

"Yes, of course you're next," Hydan said. "You're the girl from Eight, aren't you?"

"Oh, well—yes," Arabella nodded, giggling at herself. Hydan rolled his eyes; to him, this girl was nothing more than a mindless, bow-wearing child. "My, where to begin?" she asked herself. "I'm Arabella, and I'm eighteen years old, from District Eight, of course. My Uncle Otto is the _mayor_ of my district, actually. You might say I'm a little too nice for my own good, but I don't look at it as a weakness." She smiled, looking from Annie, to Fia, to Byren, and to her district partner, Lezar. "I see kindness and compassion as a virtue. Even in the Hunger Games. I just don't think people should deserve to feel threatened or scared. Rather, I would want to help them…give them happiness. Perhaps, take away some of their pain, so no one has to die in misery."

Lezar smiled at this, a rare occurrence. He saw Arabella as a role model, the kind of girl passionate enough to speak _his_ own thoughts and inner feelings for him. The kind of girl who was more than willing to extend an empathetic hand to support the weak and frightened.

Destin's speech faltered; he respected the girl's philanthropy. "Th-that's very generous of you to say."

The girl simpered. " _Aw_ , Destin…"

Even Poison felt at home with Arabella's nonjudgmental candidness, her paranoia melting in the company of this newly-introduced girl from Eight.

But Jay narrowed her eyes, an infiltrating thought gnawing at the back of her mind. The career felt her brain tinkering, her thoughts reeling: something about this girl from Eight didn't sit well with her.

"Don't you think your logic could get you killed?" Elias could only wonder.

Arabella shook her head, her eyes wide. "Oh, no! I think compassion is what keeps people sane. And we'll need our sanity in the arena! Right?" Again, she touched her fingers to her lips and giggled.

" _Yes_ ," Jay said, her voice cutting across the room. "Otherwise, you might go insane." Internally, she glared at Arabella—for some unclear reason, Jay _detested_ her. But externally, the career applied a fake smile, her voice laced with sincere lilts that demonstrated no antipathy.

"Anyway." Arabella released a heavy puff of breath. "Let's continue on, enough about me!" She looked at Lezar, then nodded her head in his direction. "Besides, this guy here is much sweeter than I will ever be. Such a pure, nice boy."

Lezar blushed at her compliment, a prominent red standing out against his normally-pale skin. "Th-thanks," he said, smiling meekly, but with unfailing gratitude. The boy appeared deathly nervous, like a frightened child left abandoned on a cold winter's evening.

Arabella assisted him, filling in the patches of silence. "He's Lezar," she said. "He's quiet at first. But trust me, once you get to know him, he'll leave you laughing all night." She met the boy's gaze, and she smiled at him, nodding with encouragement. "I just wish I could have met him long ago in District Eight under different circumstances, because I think he would have made an amazing friend."

 _Friend._ Something inside the boy was twisting, reshaping. Something ugly turned and processed in a new light. Lezar was bubbling now. He perked up, suddenly less afraid of harrying judgment. " _Heh heh,_ well, um, yeah. I'm Lezar Murnon, and I'm thirteen." He looked to Arabella, who gave a wide-smiled nod of motivation; with her support, he felt _brave_. "I guess you can say I'm a thinker. Also, I,"—he looked at Byren and offered a gentle smile—"I really like school, too, Byren. Grades are important to me…but so is my family." Then he took a deep, alleviating breath; normally, he would've been a high-strung basket-case, but somehow, some _where_ , he found the confidence to combat his rampant stress. And he could never thank Arabella enough.

"You know what I noticed?" Jean finally said, wiping a fake tear from his eye.

Heracles tilted his head. "What?"

"The round-up this year is _sad_."

"What do you mean?" Fia inquired.

" _What do you mean?_ " Jean mocked. "I mean, look at you all. Crying in each others' arms, looking for emotional support to get through the _challenging_ task of the white room. News flash, people: we're just standing in a room. How on Earth are any of you gonna survive the _games_?"

Lezar winced. He couldn't help but assume the career's words were directed at him.

"It's true," Vivian injected.

Fia held up a hand. "Vivian, _please_. No one wants to listen to you." The Queen from Eleven would need to be dethroned soon, Fia realized.

"You know," Hydan said to Jean. "Overconfidence is a killer."

Jean released an unrestricted bellow of laughter. "Says the guy who flaunts his IQ every half an hour!"

"Shut up, Jean," Sierra said, venom in her voice. "Hydan's just being prideful, not overconfident. There's a difference." Ever since the career's "slut" comment, an eruptive fury had been coursing through Sierra's veins.

Josaline waved her hands in the air as though signaling for attention. "Can we just get back to the introductions?"

"Yes, little girl," Jean said. Then he cupped his cheeks in his hands, feigning surprise and terror. "But watch out! The white room is really driving me insane! I might go crazy thinking about how many depressing, spineless tributes are going to be sharing an arena with me! Oh no!"

Heracles couldn't help but laugh silently at the compounding hysteria. And from Jean's side, Ambrosia scowled; minute by minute, her district partner's irritative qualities intensified.

"This is insane," Destin muttered nasally. "Why do we always fight?"

Jean interlocked his fingers as though anticipating a delicious meal. "Because our types don't get along," he said bluntly. "I am a winner, born and bred. You…" And he probed the boy from Three with obvious—and overplayed—distaste. "You are a loser. And obviously you're jealous the winners, do complain and start arguments. Simple as that."

Destin looked hurt. "But that—"

" _Everyone just shut up!_ " Sandy roared. The career from Four had been so quiet that his presence was nearly forgotten. With shaking fingers he scraped at his head, as though trying to unearth the infesting worms that had wiggled their way into his sanity.

Fia stumbled back. "Woah, Sandy, calm down—"

" _Shut up!_ " And the boy lunged forward, seizing the girl's wrist.

"Let me go!" she screeched. "Y-you're not allowed to do this!"

"Sandy!" Jay insisted, yelling into his ear. "You know what they'll do to you if you injure someone! Just, let her go."

Fia wriggled beneath the boy's tyrannical grasp. Sandy's face was boiling with the red-hot rage associated with only the most unstable sociopaths.

" _Fine!_ _"_ he screamed, releasing his grip. " _Fine! Fine! Fine!_ " He stormed in a circle, his shoulders hunching and decompressing as his stress chewed away at his insides. "I can't stand it in here!" he yelled. "You're all nuts!" And he pointed from Fia to Lezar, then from Lezar to Poison. "Nuts, nuts, nuts!"

"Sandy, just…" Jay sighed, trying to calm the irate boy.

" _Haa!_ " Vivian laughed. " _We_ _'_ _re_ nuts? Us?! Oh, the irony!"

Jay shot the girl a dagger-eyed glare, as though saying "don't instigate him". It was obvious his moods were as fickle as the oscillation of a pendulum.

Cole's mind was swimming. Everyone was already teeming with so much anger and unremitting hate, and it was only the first day at the Capitol. What heinous metamorphosis would these people undergo once inside the arena? What would they _become_? Bloodletting denizens of psychopathic intent? Whose dwellings existed only in the most pestilential corners of their hearts? And what of the kind-hearted Byren? Arabella? Heracles? Would they be mere fodder, murdered cruelly to augment the malicious vocations of the merciless? And Jade, too?

Cole shrank. He couldn't let his sister be subjected to this murderous inhumanity. Or else she would die, he would die, all of the _compassionate_ people would die in that arena. Cole swallowed nervously. He couldn't just be a hapless bystander anymore. Whether he liked it or not, he would need to _play_ the games.

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** Out of the 8 tributes who introduced themselves this chapter, who's your favorite?

Fia, the spunky girl who values optimism, independence, and leadership? With a bit of an infectious laugh...

Byren, the quiet and gentle, but self-conscious boy who absolutely hates his voice and all his "faults"?

Poison, the socially-awkward, paranoid girl who's prone to mental breakdowns, and is just looking for an understanding friend?

Hydan, the lazy, but infinitely smart boy with an IQ of 200, who isn't afraid of speaking his sarcastic mind?

Sierra, the pyromaniacal girl with deviant, lusty tastes, who can't help but hate herself for the kind of person she is?

Heracles, the witty boy not shy of strategies, who isn't afraid to do _anything_ to survive? And perhaps a friend of Cole and Jade?

Arabella, the wide-eyed, pacifistic girl who tries to be kind and see the good in everyone? And prone to fainting...

Lezar, the timid boy with social anxiety, an advocate of intelligence, compassion, and, though difficult for him to find, friendship?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Well that's it for this week! I'll edit the website soon with my intended update day (as I will for the rest of the chapters from here on out). Thanks for reading, let me know what you think!:)


	12. A Hammer to the Head

**Poll Added!** A poll has been added to my profile, please go vote!

 **Website Info!:** Some added content has been added to the website, including a section for each tribute to display their physical appearances. Also, the framework for the "Places" tab is being toyed with. (I will continue to add information to the website only AFTER it has come up in the fic, so it won't spoil anything). Also, the link:

http COLON SLASH SLASH nothingcomeswithoutsacrificefanfiction DOT weebly DOT com

 **Author's Note:** I guess in spirit of NaNoWriMo I should try to update a bit more often! In fact, I'll make it my goal. Anyway, this chapter concludes the white room test, so enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

 **A Hammer to the Head**

* * *

Jean slapped a palm against the slick wall of the white room. "Oh, just stop being a complaining imbecile and get this over with!"

" _No_ ," Oliver said firmly. "I will _not_ be introducing myself as the 'District Nine female'. Why would I claim to be something I'm not?"

The boy from One shook his head. "This charade has gone on long enough."

Annie shifted her weight from leg to leg, the growing antagonism making her uncomfortable. "Guys, let's just be accepting…"

"Yeah, _Jean_." Sierra added, the fire in her words a brilliant complement her magmatic hair. "Maybe you should learn to not _bully_ the 'sluts' and 'imbeciles' in the room."

Rooper tensed and unclenched his fingers. "Guys…"

"She's right," Fia agreed, giving Sierra a supportive nod.

"Thank you…both of you," Oliver said quietly; being a biological female associating as a male, it was unusual to receive support, rather than mockery, from his fellow peers.

Vivian snorted, looking between Fia and Sierra. "Please, Man Woman over here doesn't need our sympathy. This isn't a charity for emotions; this is the _Hunger Games_."

"Man Woman?!" Oliver blurted.

" _Guys_ ," Rooper repeated, his sonorous voice ricocheting off the chambered walls.

Vivian frowned at Oliver. "What's wrong with your new nickname? It's sure better than,"—she pointed to Sierra—"Pervy Touch-Girl, or,"—she cast a finger at Rooper—"Deep Voice McStone-Face."

"W-what?" Rooper stammered.

Hydan smirked, trying to suppress a genuine smile. "You know, Vivian. For being the bitter person you are, you sure are amusing."

Behind her back, Ambrosia signed " _Boy, you_ _'_ _re a bitter person too._ "

"Well, whatever," Oliver mumbled, glaring between Jean and Vivian. "My name's Oliv _er_ Glassow, and I'm fourteen. And I don't really care what you think of me, anyway." In the past, he might have resorted to crying as an outlet for his emotional trauma. Years ago, he might have felt hopelessly denigrated, and typecast himself as the unwanted outcast whose life was meaningless at the hand of his "differences". But even the worst of bullies couldn't stop the sun from rising; his older brother had taught him that much, at least. Since then—through his brother's overzealous support and demonstration—Oliver realized that scum like Vivian and judgmental bigheads like Jean meant _nothing_.

Arabella prompted Oliver to take both her hands. " _Oliver_ ," she addressed him. "We want you to be who _you_ want you to be. You can't live through the Hunger Games unhappy."

That was all Oliver ever wanted to hear. He smiled warmly. "Oh, th-thank you, Arabella."

The girl from Eight released his hands, giggling her trademark _tee-hee._

Oliver grinned. "What's so funny?" Arabella's youthful giddiness was going to make him laugh.

"Oh, _no_ ," Sandy stomped his foot firmly into the cold, smooth floor. "We are _not_ having another laughing fit. We-we, I'll…" And then he started jumbling his words, the anger seething in his veins as he rasped his knuckles together in mentally-afflicted misery.

Jay steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. "Deep breaths," she whispered, quiet enough to elude attention.

Aryanna ignored the commotion, instead focusing her musing on Oliver. The boy, deep beneath his outward aura of confidence, seemed very sweet. Perhaps it was an uphill battle for him fighting to be understood, but the girl from Twelve respected his resilience. _Oliver_ _'_ _s an eight_ , she told herself; it was customary of her to attribute personality ratings to everyone she met, based on her first impressions and the resulting _long-term_ impressions she received from being in their proximity.

Jade drew the conversation elsewhere. "Oliver," she began. "How—how, like, old were you when you…when you…"

"Realized I was better off being a boy?" He finished the girls' words. When she nodded slowly, he added, "Young when I realized it. And I was probably—oh, say—seven or eight when I officially made the transition. It doesn't bother me, talking about it," he said confidently. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm just accepting the person I was meant to be—whether others agree, or not."

Jade offered a delicate smile, while Annie said, "See, that's the kind of positivity I think people need. Live your life, enjoy your life!"

Byren clacked his fingers together. Living his life was hard enough when he _wasn_ _'_ _t_ stuck in the bloodthirsty games. He yearned for the optimism that Annie so blithely possessed; he would've done _anything_ to escape his self-defeating, self-critical nature and find just a tatter of happiness in his final days. But perhaps it was too late for that, now.

But Oliver's fortitude gave him strength. If the boy from Nine could live and accept himself for who he was, then Byren could too, right? _Bisexual. Reclusive. Underdog. Anxious._ They were all just the adjectives that made him a better, diverse person…right?

Destin looked at Oliver, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Well, we…we all admire your courage," he said, in the most heartfelt—albeit nasally—voice he could muster.

"I think you've all made your point," Hydan declared. "Oliver is so brave and amazing, blah blah blah _._ Shall we continue?"

"Yup." Heracles nodded, glancing sidelong to peripherally watch Cole and Jade.

"Good," Jean said. "Onto the District Nine _male_. Added emphasis to distinguish from the _female_." His eyes glared at Oliver, but his maniacal, clown-like grin suggested a hidden layer of telepathic conveyance: _I_ _'_ _m going to kill you in that arena, Oliv_ ia _._

"Well, I'm Willow Sanders," the boy from Nine greeted. "I'm eighteen." The soft-spoken teen was a heavily-muscled tribute of skyscraper proportions, standing nearly at seven feet tall—the _tallest_ tribute in the arena that year. If it weren't for his quiet, gentle external disposition, he might've been dubbed the most physically-domineering person in the room.

Jean snorted. Did he feel threatened by a non-career, from District _Nine_ of all places? Of course not.

"My, oh _my,_ " Arabella noted, admiring Willow. "Looks like _someone_ has been training for the games!"

Willow smiled gently. "Thank you, very much. But no, it's just from all the labor work I do."

Sandy bit his lip, eyeing Willow with a smirk. "You good with any weapons?"

The boy from Nine shrugged. "I'm just good at my work, is all." Secretly, his work required proficient command of both scythes and sickles, but Sandy didn't need to know that.

"Well, you must be on _some_ enhancer…" Sandy spluttered. "Capitol steroids? Medical injections? No one gets that strong from working in _grain fields_ …"

Jean whistled amusedly. "Hmmm, Sandy, you scared of him?"

" _No_ ," the boy from Four spat. "My mother wasn't afraid of anything when she won the games. And I won't be afraid, either."

"Good," Jean said, raising his eyebrows in a teasing way. "After all, we're allies. Can't have my right-hand man afraid of Willow Sanders."

Sandy merely grumbled, rubbing his bloodthirsty knuckles and glaring incisively at Willow.

The tribute from Nine looked unfazed. Inwardly, he didn't want to be on the radar of the careers. His entire game strategy consisted of lying low and ambushing the weaker tributes one by one, but now he was perceived as the paramount "force to be reckoned with", the opposition of the careers and their newest nemesis. He grew nervous, tapping his foot against the ground to dispel the intensifying worry.

"Like I said," the tall boy added humbly, "I just do a lot of manual working. I don't take medications, I don't train for the games…Really, I just try to make the most of my simple life back home." He could only wonder how Sandy thought his profession as a low-class farmer could propel him to the monetary stature required for steroidal, Capitolian enhancers.

Sandy mumbled his dissent. "Whatever."

Willow crossed the room to the career's side. "Look," he said. "I promise." And he extended his hand in an act of politeness. "Let's not make enemies out of each other, right?"

Sandy observed the boy's hand with outward disgust, as though the inferior _farmer_ were sporting some pox-ridden physical infirmity. "I suggest you be a good lamb," Sandy muttered, his teeth gritted to white dust, and an insane, sadistic sheen glistening in the corners of his eyes. "And go back to your post." He pointed to the vacated spot that Willow had formerly occupied. "Go. Before things get bloody."

"Sandy…" Jay said, lifting her arm ever-so slightly in attempt to stop the could-be ensuing fight.

But Willow simply dropped his head in defeat and nodded. "I'm sorry," he said, obediently returning to where Sandy was pointing.

Aryanna watched carefully. _Willow, a pretty nice guy. Seven, maybe eight._

"U-um," Fia stammered, trying to propel the conversation out of its belligerent funk. "I think it's time for District Ten!"

Josaline Tanner stepped forward with the self-assured confidence of a fearless leader. "Hey guys," she said, giving everyone a once-over coupled with a small wave of her hand. "I'm Josaline, and I'm fourteen. Normally I'm more talkative, but I was up all last night with a pounding headache." Then she shrugged, sounding disinterested. "But I guess this is my time to shine, right?"

Annie smiled. "Yes, it is."

"Oh, goodie!" Josaline clapped, and suddenly she was an entirely different person. "I guess you can say I know a good bit about the games."

"Are you a fan of them? Oliver asked.

"Oh, no," the girl from Ten answered. "Well, not _no_ …I'd rather not be in them," she admitted. "But if it's the Capitol's wishes, then I'm happy to abide by them." Hopefully the sponsors would appreciate that comment. In truth, Josaline felt nothing toward the games; her opinion fell perfected balanced in the vein of indifference.

"You're happy to just…abide by them?" Poison asked. Everyone turned to the girl from Six, unaccustomed to her normal voice that wasn't weighed down by her fits of paranoidal anger.

"Um—well, yes, I'm happy to abide by them…"

Poison's shoulder started to twitch, a look of unbridled fear inscribed on her contorted face.

"Why?" Josaline queried.

Then the girl from Six started to shake all over, her body suddenly convulsing with the familiar pulsations of a panic attack.

"No." Jean cut his hand through the air. "You're not doing this again. I'm not gonna stand around while that crazy witch has a mental freak out every five seconds."

Oliver furrowed his brow. "Maybe if we just listened to her for—"

"You're annoying me, Olivia," Jean said.

Heracles snapped his fingers. "And with that, back to Josaline!"

The room quieted as attention was again drawn to the girl from Ten. Josaline looked up at the ceiling, a pensive written on her face. "Hmm, what else is there to say about myself? Um—"

"She's awfully feisty," Kieson fake-coughed.

"Um, excuse you?" she rounded on her district partner.

"It's true." He nodded. "You should see how sassy she would get on the train."

Josaline rolled her eyes, a smile forcing itself onto her lips. "Oh, _please_ …he's only joking. Really, I'm just a sweetheart."

Kieson merely whistled. He bulged his eyes and shook his head in a way to suggest the girl were crazy, an act that earned him one playful punch in the arm from his district partner.

Fia smiled and laughed her familiar infectious laugh. "Josaline, you _seem_ like a sweetheart! Is there anything else you want to say about yourself?"

The girl tilted her head. "Aw, no, I don't think so."

Fia nodded. "Alright, in that case—"

"In that case," Josaline took over. "Kieson, the bully, is up next!"

" _Hmmm_ …" Kieson thrummed at the sound of his newly-acquired alias. "Well, yeah. I'm Kieson, Kieson Dove. And I'm eighteen, from District Ten. I'm sure you've always wondered if livestock and all of its fascinating aspects are as exciting as it sounds. Well, let me tell you: it's a real party."

Sierra laughed at this. "Really loving that sarcasm, Kieson."

The boy was chewing on the tips of his fingers. "Mmm, the doctor said it was a disease. Glad to see _some_ one can appreciate my personality."

"Wait, what do you mean?" Annie asked. "The doctor said your sarcasm was a disease?"

Vivian rolled her eyes. "It's a _joke_ , you idiot."

Arabella held up a finger to her lips. "Oh—I was confused, as well." Then she giggled at her own foolishness.

"Kieson…you seem like a cool guy," Sierra commented in a coy undertone. "Pretty laid-back, all that…"

"Heh…" Kieson released a single laugh. "That's me: Mr. Chill." That was his story for now—at least, as far as these people were concerned. He wouldn't dare give a detailed account of what his life was _really_ like. He wouldn't say his mother was an unknown mystery, a mere wisp of intangibility—a woman he never knew. He wouldn't divulge the horrifying truth of his military-esque upbringing, the beatings he suffered and his childhood that was stolen, to be replaced with the strict orders of his father. And he certainly wouldn't say he got a girl pregnant at the ripe age of twelve.

"You look pretty strong," Fia said.

"He's probably been training for the Hunger Games!" Josaline joked.

"Oh, yeah, _totally_ ," Kieson said. Then, with no sarcasm entwined in his words: "Long live the games. Love the Capitol." He gave a thumbs-up to an invisible camera, but the words left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He hated the games, unlike his father. And he thought the Capitol was _horribly_ managed; rather, _he_ would have liked to been president. After all, the boy was heavily equipped with judicial knowledge, and he had studied and understood the inner workings of the Capitol's government like the back of his hand. These skills, he knew, were the attributed result of having lived in a Capitol-adoring home for so many years.

"That about wraps up everything for me," Kieson said, realizing how much of his life was a mystery to his fellow tributes; he could only wonder how shielded and unrevealing the others were with their own introductions.

"Well!" Fia exclaimed. Then her vigor dissolved as her eyes fell upon Vivian. "I guess it's time for Di—"

"The District Eleven female!" Josaline said. "That's Vivian, yes?"

"I…" Fia paused, fidgeting with her hands. "I got it from here, Josaline."

"No, it's fine," the girl from Ten said. "I'm a good speaker, I can take over with the introductions. Fia, you can help me, or something, if I need it. Okay?"

"Sure," came Fia's nettled response.

"Good!" Josaline said. "Now, Vivian, go introduce yourself."

"Sheesh," Vivian said. "Just forcing me to do stuff, huh?"

The younger girl crinkled her nose. "Please, Vivian?"

The female from Eleven simply smirked with deliberate obduracy.

Josaline's voice began to rise. "I'm being _really_ patient with you."

"Your face is turning _red_ ," Vivian noted. "You call that being patient?"

"Well…I'm _trying_ ,"

Fia sidled her way into the conversation. "Here, let me help—"

"No," Josaline said. "I thought I told you to stop? I didn't ask for help…"

Jay rose her eyebrows; perhaps there had been some truth in Kieson's words. This girl _did_ exude the feisty bossiness of someone who lusted for control—or was it attention? The career made it a point to observe and eventually classify Josaline's affliction, just another addition to the endless vault of psychiatric information she had stored in the library of her brain.

"Let's stop arguing," Rooper suggested, which sounded more like a command.

Josaline sighed, meeting Fia's gaze head-on. "Look, I'm sorry. I just, I like handling things…I'm sorry I snapped."

 _Josaline: four_ , Aryanna told herself. _We_ _'_ _re both sassy, probably wouldn_ _'_ _t get along._

Fia didn't need any more enemies; Vivian was already an enemy and a half, herself. "Me too. Sorry."

"Isn't this just heartwarming," Hydan said. Destin rolled his eyes; it irked him whenever Mr. IQ tried to assert his dominance, whether it be through his sardonic attitude or his 'unmatched intelligence'.

"Well, fine," Vivian said. "Since you're all just gonna cry until I introduce myself…I'm Vivian, and I'm seventeen. And if you haven't realized this by now, I'm a lone wolf with an agenda; I suggest that if you want to live a little bit longer in that arena, you stay out of my way."

" _Hoowee_ , those are some tough words." Kieson feigned awe, and resumed chewing at his nails.

 _Vivian: a two, for sure._

"Yeah, I know," Vivian said, eyebrows raised. "I'm more prepared for the games than any of you can even imagine."

"No, but…" Annie disregarded Vivian's egotism, looking concerned. "Vivian, you must have a story."

"A story?" Vivian asked. "Like a 'oh I had such a rough childhood so that's the why I treat everyone the way I do' kind of backstory? Yeah, no. I just don't have time for the likes of twenty-three whiny brats."

But Annie didn't feel convinced, a sympathetic look strewn on her face. She _had_ caught a glimpse of the etched scars scattered along Vivian's forearms. "But—"

" _No buts!_ " Vivian's words were like icy daggers. "Now, I'm not much for social formalities—"

"No shocker there," Jean said.

Vivian narrowed her eyes at the career. "And I'm not a fan of this 'introduce yourself' malarkey. So, I think this little squirt is next in line." She roughly patted Elias on the back, which sounded like a lancing slap against his rubbery outfit. "You're up, kiddo."

Josaline added, "Yeah. It's Elias's turn."

Elias didn't appreciate Vivian's treatment, nor did he take kindly to her constant references to his age. He wanted to clarify that being the youngest person in the arena didn't make him useless, easy-to-target prey. "Hi guys, I'm Elias Severio. I'm…twelve years old," he said, unwittingly chewing on his bottom lip. Then he put on his mask of confidence and said. "But age doesn't really matter in the games. It just comes down to who played it the best, I guess…"

"That's terribly true," Arabella agreed.

Oliver nodded, adding, "Right. It's only a weakness if you make it one," a comment that received a derisive snort from Jean.

Elias smiled faintly at his supporters. He wanted to disband his guarded nature and divulge the entirety of his life story, but there was no one in the world who could ever understand him. Was it normal to feel alone? Misunderstood? Was it normal to join a gang—comprised of miscreants who frightened him, no less—just for the sake of fitting in? And…was it even worth it, if _they_ —his gang members, his friends—didn't even understand him?

But Elias would never show weakness in public. "I guess you could say I live a pretty average District Eleven life."

"Psh," Vivian snickered.

"And you don't?" Elias asked her, his voice firm.

"Honey, do I look like I live a boring, average life?"

The boy shrugged. "Hey, maybe you're just trying to impress. So, yeah, you probably do."

"You have a lot of nerve picking a fight with me, little boy."

"You too," Elias muttered. He tried to express a stout-hearted air of conviction, though inside his stomach was squirming like a can of worms: deep down, he felt threatened…and he felt terrified.

Hydan twisted his face. "It sounds like you guys got along really well. The train ride must've been a joy."

Heracles chuckled; the thought of sharing a train with Vivian was almost humorous.

"Guys, stop fighting," Josaline said, a little too insistently. "I mean, please…we probably have less than an hour left in here. We don't need to ruin it now."

"She's right," Willow agreed. "Elias, Vivian…just apologize, and we can move on. You don't have to like each other, but I hope you don't hate each other, either."

Sandy laughed unmercifully. "That's the funniest thing I heard all day!" he spat. Then he glowered at the boy from Nine, adding, "Apologize? This is the Hunger Games, not a class for nice manners." And he laughed again, though no one was really laughing with him.

Willow nodded and looked at the floor. "I'm sorry, Sandy."

"You should be."

Elias and Vivian were still bickering like a discontent couple. Destin rubbed his shoulders up and down. "Guys, can we just finish this up? We only have one more district left…"

"Yeah," Sierra concurred. "Cut it out."

Josaline smiled at the remaining two tributes, who were standing side by side, soundlessly watching the influx of chain-reactive arguments. "Let's move on…District Twelve female?"

All eyes fell on Aryanna Golding, the final girl. She glanced away in effort to circumvent the uncomfortable, claustrophobic limelight. "I'm Aryanna," she said. "But I like to be called Arya. And I'm sixteen." Normally she was a chatterbox, a popular girl from middle-class Twelve whose fierce and feisty inner self could've rivaled even the most sassy of Vivians. But meeting _new_ people was always a social battle, leaving her uncomfortable and acting ice-cold.

"That's a really pretty name," Arabella marveled.

"Aw, well, thanks," Arya said, her lips slowly curving upward into a thin smile.

"Do you think you're prepared for the arena?" Jay was making conversation. And, perhaps, she could lure the girl into spilling some kind of useful information.

Arya tilted her head and contemplated. "Yes, actually," she decided. "I think I'm strong enough, smart enough, and good enough at what I do. So…yeah."

Jay nodded slowly, as though it took some time to process and understand Arya's response. "Good enough at what you do? What is that?" she asked.

"Oh, um…" Arya saw no point in hiding her talents, if she would simply reveal them during the private sessions, anyway. "Crossbow, bow and arrow, knives…" She recited her index of skills as monotonously as one would recite a grocery list.

"Sounds like someone's a fighter!" Josaline acknowledged.

"Well…no, no," Arya said. "I'm just good with a few weapons, is all."

"That's suspicious," Vivian said, pointing her finger at the girl as though accusing her of a deplorable crime. "I mean, no one just 'gets good at weapons' in Panem unless they have a reason to."

"What's _your_ reason?" Heracles wondered, his comment directed at Vivian. "You said that you were dangerous and that you had an agenda, so I'm assuming _you_ _'_ _re_ good with weapons, aren't you?"

Vivian's confidence faltered briefly. "Um—well, yeah, I am."

"Why, though?" he pressed. "If there 'must be a reason' why you're good at weapons. Sounds to me like Annie was right, and you _do_ have an interesting backstory." He was going to say that it might explain the lacerations on her forearms, but he decided to keep quiet; after all, if he was the only person who knew about Vivian's injuries, he might be able to confront her about them in private.

"I knew I was right," Annie said, with the kind of excitement suggesting she just uncovered a generous sum of money.

Vivian blew out a heavy puff of air. "Oh, shut up," she said, ignoring Annie's comment and looking directly at Heracles. "You know, you've really been grating on my nerves these last few hours," she said. "I'm good with weapons, but I don't have a fairytale story. Now you're just twisting my words and assuming things."

" _Anyway_ ," Fia said, her tone growing dark as she scowled at Vivian. Then she turned to the other tributes and, in her chipper voice, said, "Anyway, let's continue! Arya, we're still on you."

Attention was again drawn to the girl from Twelve, who averted the twenty-three gazes by alternatively looking at her distorted reflection cast upward by the stainless white floor. "U-um…I don't really have much else to say," she admitted.

"In that case," Josaline stepped in. "Rooper, you're last. Go, please introduce yourself."

"Hey everyone, I'm Roopertutino," he said. "Or Rooper, for short. I'm eighteen years old, from Twelve."

 _Eighteen years old?_ Arya asked herself. _No_ _…_ _Eighteen, more like the personality rating I_ _'_ _d give you._ Or, perhaps, the amount of times she wanted to run over and kiss him. From the minute she had laid eyes on Roopertutino, she had—with almost shameful awareness—felt the familiar pang of unachievable affection. It was silly, she realized. It might be her last few weeks alive, and she was bothering herself with love? But, then again…wasn't love the very essence of the human soul? Perhaps it was only _natural_ that a person yearn for the cradling arms of romance in their dying hour. To know that, when all else failed, they departed with love.

"Um…you're _really_ strong," Sierra observed.

Indeed, Rooper, much like Willow, was another muscle-engraved Atlas. "Heh, well, thank you," he said, his deep voice and respectful tone analogous to that of a well-mannered nobleman.

"Oh, not this again," Sandy muttered. He couldn't help but grow frustrated at the exorbitant amount of non-career tributes who, in physical form, resembled their counterparts. "You must work in the mines," he said. "Unless you've been training for the games?"

"No, I haven't been training for the games." Rooper simply shook his head. And he didn't work in the mines, either; in fact, he was part of District Twelve's minority upper class—an upper class _rebel_ , who did indeed train, not for the games, but for an insurrection.

"Well… _I dunno_ ," Sandy snapped.

Jay could tell her district partner was really losing it; some fresh air would certainly do him good.

"It's alright," Rooper said, his resonant voice not threatening, but kind-heartedly pure. "I understand your qualms, Sandy. And I respect your concern, but I don't train for the Hunger Games." Then he clarified. "I do support the games, though."

Arya winced at this. "Why?" she wondered. "What makes you support them?"

Rooper shrugged. He _was_ a rebel, but it didn't mean every facet of the Capitol was loathesome. "I don't condone needless murder," he said. "But if the Hunger Games are to act as a punishment, then I suppose I can't really complain."

Arya nodded, smiling a little. He always had such honorable, forthright responses. And he always had the _right_ responses. The girl's heart skipped a beat: Rooper was an absolute gem, sheer glittery perfection wrapped in the adornment of his beautiful, human flesh.

"Cool stuff," Hydan said. "I think we're done now, right?"

"Yeah," Josaline said. "I wonder how much time we have left?"

"Dunno, but too much." Sandy shifted glares between Willow and Rooper; however, the former seemed to annoy him incalculably more.

A lethargic quietude settled over the room. What was a group of twenty-four tributes supposed to do now?

"Well…" Heracles grinned. "We could play a game?"

Fia laughed vibrantly. "Yeah! Of course, with all the options we have in here."

"Hide and seek," Kieson suggested.

"I have an idea," Jean spoke up. "Let's simulate the _Hunger Games_." And from behind the boy's back, Jean pretended to strangle Destin.

" _No_ ," Jade said.

"Aw, why not?" the career from One asked. "You're a career, you should agree with me."

Jade laughed sarcastically. Heracles looked like he wanted to say something, but Sierra spoke first. "Don't hate on them, Jean. You know they're rebels, so leave 'em alone."

Jean tipped his head back and faked laughter. "It's funny," he began. "Almost ironic, maybe. District Two usually poses the biggest threat to One. I mean, after the career alliance breaks apart, of course." He was looking directly at Cole now, a predatory shine in his eyes that reminded the blonde of Lance Tocar. "But _this_ year…if Heracles is right, and you two _are_ just puny…worthless… _weak_ rebels…then I'll be able to show all of Panem just how deserving I am to be the victor. After all, I'm District _One_. District… _number_ … _One_."

Cole looked flustered, his breaths choppy and his hands shaking. "I…u-um…"

"Ignore him," Sierra said, pointing at Jean and looking directly at the boy from Two. "You're name's Cole, right?"

The boy nodded. "Y-yeah."

"Well, Cole, you're a pretty cool kid," the red-haired girl added. "If we meet up in the arena, well…I got your back."

"Th-thank you, Sierra…" Cole's heart warmed like an oven. First Heracles, now Sierra? What on Earth about his scrawny, ball-of-nerves self made him such an appealing comrade? But then a memory struck him, a collection of words that hit him over the head like a hammer labeled "startling realization": _"_ _You_ _'_ _re smart, and you_ _'_ _re quiet_ _—_ _which is probably pretty rare for a male from Two. And you_ _'_ _re good at like, being nice to everyone, so you_ _'_ _ll probably make a lot of friends. And if you have friends, you have allies._ _"_ His sister's words from the day before.

"No problem," Sierra said, her sometimes-faraway voice enriched with a flirtatious trill. Then she pointed at Jean, and in a candid tone, said, "Don't mind him, Cole. He's just trying to scare you."

Jean reeled back as though he had just seen a hideous bug. " _I_ _'_ _m_ the scary one? Need I remind everyone of when you started feeling up _Lezar?_ Which is messed up for about ten different reasons. Not to mention Lezar is a wimpy, sad little nobody."

The boy from Eight was hurt, Jean's words like an emotional stab at his heart. Arabella nudged him and simply shook her head, as though saying "Just ignore it."

And then Jean continued to belittle the "inferior" tributes, tearing through their sensitivities like wispy pieces of paper. And Sandy proceeded to regard Willow with his contemptuous, hating eyes. And Vivian complained, and Fia argued back. And Heracles laughed, and Hydan yawned with lackadaisical disinterest. Suddenly, Cole realized, he _knew_ these people. Maybe not the details of their lives, or every element of their tragic past, but rather, he possessed a gift much greater than that: he could see how they lived _in the present_. He saw how they reacted, he knew what they liked and what they didn't like. And he knew Kieson would whistle something sarcastic, while Rooper would say something prestigious in his deep voice. Three hours—three painstaking hours—had taught him more about his fellow tributes than any reapings recaps could have. Than any watching and re-watching of videotapes from past games could have.

And perhaps Jade had been right. Maybe, just _maybe_ , he had an inexplicable charisma, one strong enough to win the hearts—not of the sponsors—but of his fellow tributes. Heracles had taken a liking to him, and now Sierra. Friends. _Allies._

He had promised himself he would do anything to keep his sister alive. In less than twenty-four hours, they would be thrown into the first of the training days.

And he had an army to build.

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** Which of the 8 newly-introduced tributes this chapter was your favorite? (Also, don't forget to vote in the poll!)

Oliver, the biological female who associates as a male, displaying confidence and uncaring toward his bullies?

Willow, the mountain-of-a-teen with a quiet, obedient attitude who hates being one of the top dogs?

Josaline, the spunky girl who values leadership and high spirits, though perhaps with a bossy temperament?

Kieson, the sarcastic boy; motherless, with a lost children and a keen knowledge of Panem's government?

Vivian, the girl with unforgivingly cutting remarks, with mysterious lacerations on her forearms and the promise of no backstory?

Elias, the youngest tribute in the arena who wears a mask of confidence, and who is only looking to be understood?

Aryanna, the normally-fierce girl with anxiety issues, with a good handle on weaponry and a crush on her district partner?

Roopertutino, the heavily-muscled guy with a deep voice, who exudes a noble and polite air, and tries his hardest to be judicious?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thanks for reading! The next chapter is a bit shorter so I'm hoping to post it a little earlier than average, but we'll see! Until then, oooooh Cole has a plan, and ooooooh everyone's starting to settle into their personalities, but there's still LOTS of backstory to learn in the coming chapters. See you then! Happy November! (And don't forget to vote in the poll on my profile :)


	13. Countdown to Termination

**Poll Added!** Don't forget to vote in the poll on my profile if you haven't already!

 **Website Info:** Here is a link to the website:

http COLON SLASH SLASH nothingcomeswithoutsacrificefanfiction DOT weebly DOT com

 **Author's Note:** Finally, so happy to update! This chapter's a little different, very description-heavy, a big opportunity to learn a LOT about the country's history, as well as some of the histories of a few of the supporting characters. Although it may not seem readily apparent right now, the information presented in this chapter will be important to the future of this fic! Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 13**

 **Countdown to Termination**

* * *

The President and her advisor were standing in the faintly-lit confines of the Estate's grandest sitting room. The velvety, Victorian-style chamber was located on the fifth floor, dominating the front and center of the superstructure. Its ovular shape extended beyond the rectangular geometry of the building's near-symmetrical perimeter, overhanging the front of the edifice and upheld by the support of struggling columns rising from the balcony beneath.

The room itself was defined by a sweeping amalgamation of deep reds and brilliant cinnamons, the colors fused into every available sofa, table, and desk. The dark tones and dimmed lighting suggested upscale ambiance, and the high-vaulted ceilings lent the implication of vast import. For privacy, the entirety of the hemispheric room's windowed circumference was cloaked behind an intricate cloud of crimson, floor-to-ceiling drapery.

"President Lamita, with the enemy forces threatening an assault, I can only wonder if postponing the games would be wise?" Raxter Platt's dark blue eyes searched Amethyst's face for any signals expressive of demurral. But her thoughts were—as always—well-guarded, and the chief advisor was left empty-handed.

"No," she answered plainly. Then she arced her hand through the air, as though trying to disperse the miasmatic fumes of a bad, nonsensical suggestion. "The games will run as scheduled. I will personally see to it myself that they do."

It was no surprise the President liked to dabble in the art of supervising the games. While most preceding Presidents had distanced themselves from the Gamemakers' work, Amethyst embraced it.

"As you wish, President Lamita." Raxter bowed his head out of respect and loyal compliance. "It was a foolish suggestion," he added.

"My husband will return in a few days," Amethyst murmured. "And when he does, we can fully access the situation." Cion Lamita was the acting supreme executive of the Panem military. "And he is, as always, feeding back hourly updates to our military forces here at the Capitol."

"Of course," Raxter said knowingly. Perhaps delaying the games had been a silly suggestion after all. Panem was the most prosperous country on the planet, its technological genius untouched by the world's smaller, poverty-stricken territories. And for almost one hundred years, with its supportive fleet of allying countries—obtained through shrewd negotiation and the promise of armed support during wartime—Panem's government had climbed and topped the hierarchies of both monetary _and_ militaristic success. Panem had been untouchable. Loved by other countries— _everyone_.

Except its own people.

But everything changed under Amethyst Lamita's rule. The unification Panem had shared with a vast seventy-five percent of the world had shattered. More than half of her allies fled the Capitol's side, metamorphosing into hostile external threats. But this deleterious sacrifice did not come without gratifying reward.

The Dusk War—a full-scale conflict five years prior—had rivaled dangerously nonconformist territories against the primary allies of Panem. And in accordance with its promise of military support, the Capitol lent an army of strong-bodied Peacekeepers to quash the encroaching threat. During the war, allied delegates and accompanying military generals were housed inside Lamita Estate itself to organize combat strategies and discuss pressing foreign affairs. Panem, after all, offered the highest level of defensive security, and served as a generous "home base", containing advanced surveillance equipment and a sophisticated war room for tactical formulations.

And when the war ended—a glaring victory—the allies of Panem were sincerely thankful, acknowledging the gravity of the Capitol's wartime involvement. But Amethyst Lamita saw an opportunity to capitalize on the situation: before the foreign delegates could return home, they were surrounded by Peacekeepers, and imprisoned in high-security holding facilities on Capitolian ground. Their release would come only with a steep monetary, weaponry, and technological price. These countries, whose allegiance had formerly been sworn to Panem for almost of century, were stripped entirely of their wealth and effectively reduced to enfeebled destitution.

Treaties and affiliations were shattered, stomped into crystalline dust. But Panem was rich.

Now, five years later, these past-allies-turned-adversaries were knocking at the gates of the Capitol with heavy-hitting revenge in mind. Not every country had accepted the President's harsh propositions; thus, not every delegate had been released from their cold, cramped prison cell. And for five long years, their respective home nations were building the plans and strength required to rescue these captives—and hopefully crush Panem in the process.

Amethyst glided across the sitting room, a billowy, cumulous dress enveloping her body. She sat on the perimetrical window seat, pushing aside a long scarf of drapery and glancing through the glass. Outside, it was dark, the view dotted with tiny spheres of city-life luminescence. The white room broadcast had just concluded, and the President was far from disappointed with the results.

"That brings me to the main focus of this conversation," Amethyst said. "The games."

"Of course, President Lamita. But what of them?"

The woman's words retained their ethereal, slowly-spoken typicality. "As you know, the games this year have pushed our technological limits further than ever before. In fact, every hostile creature—aside from the tributes—has no biological affiliation. Remember when we experimented with _live_ animal breeding? DNA alterations? The results were too unpredictable."

Raxter was very aware; being the President's chief advisor, and a hard-hitting player in Panem politics for over twenty years, he understood the Capitol and its endeavors more than most. "Right," he said. "Nature is dangerous, it's uncontrollable. Our cross-bred species eventually malformed into creatures whose existence we didn't foresee. This is why Panem has been making the conversion to pure technology over the last _one hundred years._ But you and I both know all of this—it's nothing new. What are you getting at, President Lamita?"

"Indeed." the woman said, pushing wispy cyan strands of hair to the side. "Our muttations are _smarter_ ; our birds, our insects…these robots, they're under _our_ control. And each year, our scientists and engineers have been working to make the creatures deceivingly lifelike."

"Yes," Raxter agreed in his eager, reptilian voice. "Animal fur that looks real. Sounds that seem natural. Joints that move with accuracy and realistic flexibility…" He looked up in a starry-eyed gaze, the words escaping his lips as though recited from a textbook.

Amethyst continued looking out the window. "And this year, the Capitol has really outdone itself. Have you seen our technological productivity chart? It's only growing, faster and faster each year."

"I have seen it," Raxter said, nodding hurriedly. "I most certainly have, President Lamita."

"Of course, Raxter," Amethyst started. "And this is precisely why you're my chief advisor: you _know_ things. You know more than men twice your age."

Raxter couldn't stifle his smile; his cheeks turned red and he looked at the ground out of modest embarrassment.

"Your intelligence truly precedes you. Sometimes, even, I wonder if you know more about Panem than I do." Amethyst didn't truly believe that, but inflating people's egos had long since created her a network of devout friends. "Raxter, I must ask your advice."

The man straightened obediently. "I am always here to offer counsel, President Lamita."

"Very good," the woman said. She glanced sidelong out the window, her face overspread with masqueraded forlorn. "Raxter, I want this Hunger Games to have _impact_. The war we are facing has reminded me of the success Panem has seen the last few decades. We are the world's superpower," she continued. "And in our possession is an exorbitant amount of technology, _genius_ technology, mind you. And I want it put to its rightfully good use. This year…we _celebrate_ our success."

Raxter was beaming. The President's words fueled him with curious adrenaline.

"What do you think of releasing the new android prototypes this year?" she asked.

Raxter looked stunned. "But, President…I thought Panem would only change it's technology every _five_ years? That has been the policy for over a century. And we just had an update last year, for the 310th games. You want to update _again_?"

The Capitol had formerly outlined a strict regimen for its institution of highly-advanced—and highly-expensive—technology inside the games. Each year, Panem's assemblage of big-brained scientists designed and tested new and improved evolutions—or models—of its technological automata. These ranged from the forcefield walls encapsulating the arena, to the staggering, electronic weather generator, and finally to the Capitol's prized invention: the synthetic recreation of life.

But updating _every_ year would prove costly. Many of the muttations would need to be completely scrapped and rebuilt, and manufacturing every new design in sufficient mass-supply would have driven even the wealthiest country to interminable bankruptcy. Hence, a tolerable solution was born: _given the scientists_ _'_ _exponential progressive increase, it would be impossible to keep up with their pace. Instead, we_ _'_ _ll give them a ten year head-start, and play catch-up_ _—_ _but only once every five years._ And it worked. The technology was updated fast enough to keep the games ever-fresh, but not so fast that Panem would sink beneath the weight of its splurge.

"I understand," the President said. "I understand fully well that this would interrupt our future schedule. I have put a _lot_ of thought into this matter, I hope you realize. But aside from some expenditures, I believe this would properly display our _passion_ for the games. After all, we're ten years behind our scientists' most up-to-date creations; we can _afford_ to jump ahead. And…" The woman paused, crinkling her forehead. "And, this update is revolutionary. Raxter, I do hope you recall the windfall we stumbled upon five years ago, after the Dusk War."

The man nodded vigorously.

"Thus," the President continued, gently stroking the soft fabric of the window drapery. "If we update again, we'll only be five years behind our scientists' inventions. And, five years ago…"

The advisor continued his ebullient nodding, eyes wide. "Yes, oh yes! President Lamita, five years ago, with all the money and technology we received from other nations, our scientists had made considerable—no, _astronomical_ —gains in their work. You're right: this update _will_ be revolutionary…" The man puffed out his cheeks, breathing deeply as though trying to calm his wracked, awakened nerves.

"Indeed." The President drew her lips into a thin, barely-visible smile. "What do you say, Raxter? You don't think I'm being impatient, do you? Too prideful? A greedy mistake? I've spoken to our scientists already—they say the new muttations would not take long to manufacture. They would, however, be expensive."

Admittedly, the man realized that with a war leaning on the Capitol's shoulders, submitting such a vast portion of Panem's wealth to entertainment-related expenditures was probably not a wise idea. But his interest was piqued, and something about the President's furtive, last-minute rescript of the games fascinated him.

"I—I don't know," the man answered, genuinely puzzled. "As your advisor, I feel obligated to tell you no, President Lamita. To encourage you to wait. But, as your friend…and as a true Capitolian, I want to tell you yes."

* * *

"Oh, my dears! Cole and Jade, you sweeties were _wonderful_ this evening." Amina pranced to the semicircular couch in the middle of the District Two living area. In her hand was an exquisite, unopened bottle of fine Capitol champagne, fetched by their Avox room attendant just moments before.

Then the escort snapped her fingers, and the Avoxian girl fetched four stainless drinking glasses. "Now, girl, shoo. Get out. If we need any more of your services, we'll inform you so." Amina pointed sharply toward the door, and their red-haired attendant scuttled her way out.

Then Amina sat down, kittenishly close to Chromius, looking across at Cole and Jade. "A partying gift," she said, raising the bottle of champagne as though preparing to give a toast. "Tonight, we celebrate your first day in the Capitol. You kids did a splendid job today!" Then she popped open the bottle and began to intricately divvy out its contents.

"I'm exhausted," Jade sighed. "And nervous. Is this really what we need right now?"

"Maybe this is _exactly_ what you need right now," Chromius answered, shrugging. Then he issued a resonant, full-bellied chuckle.

Amina offered each of the Spera siblings a glass, but they both rejected.

"More for us," Chromius muttered.

"Well, I think what you dears accomplished in the white room was spectacular!" Amina said, sipping at the champagne. "Mmm, delicious. Chomius, taste this." She passed him a glass of his own. "That Heracles boy, why, he hopped right to your defense, didn't he?"

Cole adjusted his shoulders, scrunching them tightly against his body. "I, I guess. I…don't really know why he did, though."

"Because, my sweet lamb! You have a certain charm that the other tributes are beginning to realize. Perhaps you're not the typical career—a shame, still—but you can use this opportunity to win others' trust." Amina took a slow, lengthy sip of her champagne. "And—what did I say? On the train, didn't I predict you would be allies with Heracles, that boy from Seven?"

Cole glanced sideways, in thought. Amina _had_ been right. Maybe she wasn't the unhelpfully selfish person she seemed. Narcissistic, certainly. But not necessarily clueless.

"And now you have that girl, too," Chromius added. "His district partner."

"Oh, yes, the girl from Seven, as well! Sierra Kyles," the escort beamed. "And with the right preparation and attitude, I'm certain you'll win the hearts of other tributes during the training days." She was looking directly at Cole, now. "The nervous, quieter tributes," she said. "Who didn't swear allegiance to you in the white room, but _wanted_ to. In the days to come, I'm certain they'll come to you, Cole, and seek friendship."

"But…w-why?" the boy stammered.

"Because you're dirty rebels," Chromius said assuredly, taking a hearty swig of his champagne. "You're the inspiration for the tributes too _scared_ to admit they hate the Capitol."

Amina looked concerned, her face scrunched in pain. "I'm afraid he's right," she said, picking her words slowly and with astute care. "And, your rebelliousness…is a weakness. But alas, we will train you otherwise. We will train you like careers, and we will overcome your…setback."

"Our ' _rebelliousness_ ' is not a setback," Jade said bitingly. "And besides, Vivian and half the others don't even think we're _real_ rebels."

"Hmm…a silly girl, that Vivian is." Amina waved her hand dismissively. "But nonetheless, your mutiny _is_ a setback. But we won't dwell on that tonight; tonight, we _celebrate._ " And the escort took another long sip from her champagne glass. "So let's talk about something _fun!_ Like the things you can accomplish in the arena with all your new friends!"

"Like what?" Jade asked pointedly.

"Well, if you're unorthodox, and un _willing_ to ally with your fellow careers,"—the escort narrowed her eyes at Jade—"Then you and your little band of ragtag allies may be the main opposition to One and Four."

"But," Chromius began, "don't swell your hearts with loyalty: if it's Heracles', or Sierra's, or some other ally's time to die—and we'll teach you _when_ and how to know what that time is—then don't yield for them. Do not stop. Do not think. You take them out when they're least expecting it."

Amina nodded. "Yes, of course, my children."

" _No!_ " Jade cut across. "We're not just going to kill the _allies_ who are loyal to us!"

"You would rather them kill you first?" Chromius asked acrimoniously.

Amina turned on the couch wide enough to block out Jade, looking singularly at Cole. "Sweetie, you must be able to do the difficult things like this. We want _District Two_ alive. Let your allies serve their purpose—let them live for a while, til as long as you need them! We're not encouraging you to betray them immediately, you understand. But…don't grant them complete immunity, either." Her eyes were pleading at Cole's. Amina respected the boy more than his sister; he wasn't defiant, and would be easier to convert.

Cole remained silent, but he didn't enjoy her cajolement: Amina was smart, craftier than the common Capitolian. But then again, she hadn't _always_ been from the Capitol. For that matter, she hadn't always been from Panem, either—but from overseas.

The country's immigration laws were strict, often limiting emigrants to the rich, the innovative, or the politically insightful. And Amina Starr satisfied all _three_ of these criteria, and more: her parents were highly-elevated citizens of her former country, endowing the Starr family name with generous Panem-known eminence. Amina herself was a promising scholar, a young master of politics and psychology, yearning for admission to the Capitol's ranks the day she turned twenty. And—a rare occurrence—the Capitol welcomed the girl just one year later, receiving Amina with open arms, and happy to serve as the center stage on which she could weave her masterminded accomplishments. Panem was delighted to house and accumulate these foreign intellectuals—with the promise of their residing in the idyllic Capitol—at the expense of their District-born citizens serving the country through labor, fueled by the adrenaline of fear.

Long before relocating to the Capitol, Amina yearned for the prestigious success in the vein of top-tier politics. In fact, becoming President herself did not escape the realm of sincere possibility—at least in her opinion. Eleven years later, perhaps serving as a Hunger Games escort was far from the role of leading lady, but she was still young, with limitless aspirations to pursue. And she wasn't just a Capitol clone, with a dependent mind: she was shrewd, and still retained the better part of her intelligential autonomy.

And this was exactly how Cole knew she was dangerous.

"Darling, would you like more champagne?" Amina asked, offering the bottle to Chromius. The man took it, briskly filling his glass and shifting comfortably close to the woman at his side.

Cole knew very little of Mr. Ashe, other than that he entered, fought in, and won the 300th annual games—one of the glorified Centennial Games. The blonde was only five years old at the time, grasping onto only the distant memory of his town chanting " _Chromius, Chromius!_ " at the eighteen year old's gallant return home. The 300th Games had been such an idolized event in District Two, Cole remembered. Like a month-long holiday.

But still, the boy knew nothing of the third Centennial Games. And even more shockingly, the pretentious victor hadn't even babbled about the details of his victory, or the story of his journey in the arena. Cole had half-expected to be shuffled through a gauntlet of annoying retellings of stories, and be forced to listen to the gory intricacies of how Chromius had murdered each of his victims; but instead the man was vague, and almost entirely unrevealing of his games.

Bizarre.

The escort and mentor polished off the bottle of champagne quickly, so Amina retrieved the Avox with alcohol-desired requests. And for over an hour the adults drank and laughed, their everyday facades melting away behind red-faced splutters.

By now Amina was sitting on her knees on the leftmost cushion, clutching a pillow close to her stomach as though it were a consoling teddybear. "I remember this _one_ time," she said, her words stilted and tuned to oscillatory vocal chirps. "It was…it was the first year I was gonna be an escort. And the guy who was building the arena, the Head Gamemaker…one day, he invited me a few months before the games to see the arena as it was getting built." Her eyes were widening with each word that escaped her lips.

"So like, I just _showed up_ one day, and he gave me a tour of different parts of the arena. And there were _hundreds_ of other builders and engineers and workers there just doing stuff, putting the arena together, I guess. And the Head Guy told me to _stay away_ from the river, because they put all these dangerous chemicals in it, or something. But then he took a phone call and walked away, and the river…well, it was _scary_ standing next to it. So…so I like, just wandered off into the woods to look around, but _apparently_ I walked to the place they were testing out the _Brain Parasites_ —like, what a stupid name, first of all.

"So all these little robot bug things just start _attacking_ me, and spraying this nasty perfume into my face. So, so I started…hallucinating!" Now her voice was rising, high-pitched and accelerated like a fanatical girl rambling excitedly about her new boyfriend. "And like…I just started seeing all these crazy things. I hallucinated that the _tree_ in front of me was like, some insane cloaked guy with a butcher knife trying to _murder me_." She straightened on her knees, the shrillness of her voice reaching its climactic apex. "So naturally, I started screaming and…like, fifty workers heard me and came running over. And they all saw me _crying my eyes out!_ " Her face was red with laughter. "And I was like, trying to punch the tree, yelling threats at it, or something! I was _so embarrassed_ _…_ "

Chromius chuckled, his face boiling red as he accidentally spilled his champagne all over the couch.

Amina cocked her head to the side like a pensive puppy. "They never invited me back after that. That stupid Head Gamemaker…I'm pretty sure he got his head chopped off four years ago." She put a finger to her lip in deep thought. "Oh, I guess that's rather depressing, isn't it?"

Chromius just burst into laughter.

Jade's eyes bulged in a "this woman is completely insane" kind of way. But, admittedly, the thought of Amina crying and punching a tree gave the girl a sense of warm, internal satisfaction, and even she had to grin.

"That…reminds me of this _one_ time," Chromius slurred, holding his head as though the words pained him. "In the arena…during my games. I was, I was chasing this kid, trying to hunt him down. Some twelve year old, I dunno what district he was even from." Chromius tried to slurp down another drink, forgetting he had spilled his entire glass all over the couch.

"What happened?" Amina asked. "To the—to the kid you were chasing?"

"Well, he…he was a fast little r-runt. He must've climbed a tree, or…or turned and ran a different way, or something. I didn't see him in front of me anymore, but I kept on sprinting full steam ahead, and…and I ran _smack_ into that stupid force field fence surrounding the arena…"

Amina spit out her drink, cackling like a witch. "You just…you just ran _right_ into it?"

Cole managed a giggle, while Jade merely shook her head, though smiling reservedly all the while.

Chromius rolled his eyes. "Felt like I got demolished by a hot frying pan."

"W- _wow!_ _"_ Amina laughed, tossing her hands into the air. "The great _Chromius Ashe_ ran into a wall!"

" _It was an invisible wall!_ _"_

Amina held one hand to her lips to stifle her laughter, the other hand tapping jokingly against Chromius's shoulder. "Winner of the _third Centennial Games_ …almighty victor…career from _Two_ …runs into a wall!"

Chromius huffed. "Well, at least I don't punch trees."

Then Amina punched _him_ in the shoulder, and fell slumped onto his lap. She wrapped her arms around his burly waist and closed her eyes. "Shut up…" she whispered. "I'm…tired…"

The man looked between Cole and Jade. "Looks like it's bedtime. We'll see you in the morning," he said. "Good luck tomorrow. Tonight was fun."

* * *

Cole didn't sleep much that night; actually, he didn't sleep at all. But perhaps it was for the best. At the very least, he wouldn't be plagued by another terrifying nightmare. But no…his entire _life_ was a nightmare. These games, these tributes: all just snippets of nightmares, stitched together into an ugly road that led to unquestionable demise.

 _Tick-tock._

 _Tick-tock._

 _Tick-tock._

The seconds of his life were melting into bittersweet nonexistence.

But first, there were the training days.

* * *

 **END OF DAY 1**

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** What is your opinion of the President wanting to install new technology faster? Rash decision? Amethyst being clever? Is she totally losing it? Also, are Amina and Chromius a good escort and mentor?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So, a LOT of backstory this chapter. For anyone who's wondering, I've chosen to pursue the path where "North America is NOT the only continent that is still functional, but rather the rest of the world is still alive, just kind of in shambles and not nearly as well-developed as Panem is". And pretty much all country names, cultures, borders, etc, are different from its present-day (2015) counterpart. It's safe to assume that in this world, a major catastrophe happened that wiped out large portions of the population; most countries are still suffering from this and are therefore very poor or unpopulated. However, Panem has been making rapid improvements the last 200 years and is by far the most successful existing country. Hence, the Capitol is happy to take smart/rich foreigners (to effectively be so much more powerful than the rest of the world) while leaving its "lower class" citizens to work in the districts.

So there you have it! This chapter concludes the first of seven pre-game days...though, the first day is by far the longest, since most others will be about 1-2 chapters on average. So yeah, we're getting close-ish to the games! See ya!


	14. First Encounter (Training Day 1)

**Poll!** \- The same old poll is still on my profile...if you haven't voted in it, please do! :D

 **Website** \- As usual, the website can be found at:

http COLON SLASH SLASH nothingcomeswithoutsacrificefanfiction DOT weebly DOT com

No new website updates lately, but definitely some in preparation for the next few chapters!

 **Author's Note:** Phew, apparently these training day chapters are a LOT longer than I expected them to be...BUT, they're really fun to write, so yay! Hopefully after my finals end next week I can get onto a better and more timely schedule! Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 14**

 **First Encounter**

* * *

 **Cole Spera (District 2 Male)**

The translucent elevator ride felt like a millennium, a millennium spent unmasked during a slow, steady descent. The complex subfloor constituted a spiderweb of lengthy corridors, each branch extending to a multitude of janitorial rooms and small offices. But the main hallway, teeming with radiant lights reminiscent of those in the white room, led directly to a pair of tall, frosted glass doors.

And behind those doors was the training room.

The assigned District Two Peacekeeper led the Spera siblings through the unwelcoming threshold. The other side was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the garish illuminative monstrosities of seemingly every other room in the building. The walls were painted black, completely unadorned save for the occasional Panem seal emblazoned in the eye-straining darkness. Somehow, this was yet another form of optic torture.

The training stations were neatly denoted, some of which occupied their own respective rooms within the massive training facility. Each weapon was given a practice area, each skill its own designated post in the organized compartmentalization. Littering each station were weapons of ample sizes, weights, and variations: crossbows, longbows, explosives, swords, knives, katanas, spears, machetes, maces, axes, scythes, and many more. And, for the less hostile: camouflage, medicinal training, plant and animal identification, camping skills, resource management, knot-tying, fire starting, item crafting…

Within minutes, the remaining tributes were filtered into the room, some chatty and outgoing, others quiet and reticent. Cole hated the prolonged wait, spending the time anxiously twiddling his thumbs and keeping a hopeful eye on Heracles and Sierra. Had their previous-night's allegiance dwindled?

"Good, you're all here." A heavy voice cut through the air, its owner revealing himself from within the shadowed veil of one of the room's tenebrous corners. A young man emerged, probably no older than his early twenties. He was dressed half in Peacekeeper armor, half in the pliable training suits the tributes were sporting. He was another musclebound titan—not particularly tall, but certainly armed with the archetypal "Peacekeeper" burliness.

"I'm Volt," he said, running a hand through his spiked blonde hair. "And I'll be your training assistant these next few days. If you have any questions, you come to me. Or,"—and he pointed to a few other Peacekeepers speckling the room—"you can talk to them." His tone sounded resonant and full, perhaps purposefully made deeper to assert his dominance and effectively appear more threatening.

"You have ten hours each day. And you have three days, so use your time wisely. This is your opportunity to make allies, practice your weapon technique, whatever. I'm not here to hold your hand and tell you what to do; you figure that out for yourself." Volt straightened, slightly puffing out his chest. "Any questions?"

"What if one of us gets hurt?" Destin asked, cleaning his glasses on his shirt.

Volt blew air upward. "Well, depends on how it happened. If someone else intentionally hurts you—depending on how bad it was—they might get executed. If you injured yourself on accident or something, then that's just sad. But luckily for you, you'll be taken to the infirmary and patched right up. Any more questions?"

"Yeah," Jean said, smiling. He swept his arm across the room in the direction of his twenty-three peers. "So where do you keep all the _good_ tributes?"

Volt coughed out a laugh. He looked at some of the weaker tributes—predominately at many of the higher-numbered Districts. "True," he said, walking over to Elias. "So many _weak_ tributes this year, eh?" Then he poked the boy from Eleven in the stomach. "Like you." He moved over to Josaline. "And you." Then to Lezar, pushing him roughly on the upper chest. "And you, especially." Volt passed by Destin, shooting him a trenchant glare. And finally stopped in front of Jean. "You're right. Such little talent in this lot. Not a very promising year, is it?"

"Not at all," Jean snorted.

"Right…" Volt paused, looking Jean directly in the eyes. "Might be an easy victory for you, then. Unfortunately, though, there isn't a station in here to help overly prideful people find their way back to Earth's reality." And he patted Jean on the shoulder, swiftly turning around and returning to his post in front of the tributes.

The boy from One merely scowled, and Ambrosia pursed her lips in stifled enjoyment.

"Any more questions?" Volt prodded. When no one answered, he said, "Well, then. Let's get started, shall we?"

* * *

 **Jayleigh** **"** **Jay** **"** **Llyr (District 4 Female)**

The first thing Jay needed was to confirm the sanity of her district partner. She wouldn't allow her _main_ ally to continue his loose-cannon meltdowns, dragging her down with his insistent need for therapeutic release. And if his bipolarity was a setback, perhaps he would become her first victim in the arena.

There was a large cafeteria inside the training facility, where Avoxes dutifully cooked and prepared food for the tributes' whimsical hunger needs. She wasn't hungry—Sandy was—but they and the careers from One needed to have an important conversation.

"Should we get Cole and Jade?" the girl from Four asked as they sat at a lengthy table, Jean and Ambrosia on one side and Sandy and Jay on the other.

"Those hobos from Two?" Jean spat. "Nah. I'll just talk to them later—in private. See if they wanna join our alliance."

Ambrosia shook her head rapidly, offering a barrage of inscrutable sign language. She glared at Jean, the inch-long scar beneath her eye underlining her inner menace.

"What's she saying now?" Jean asked.

Jay shrugged; she didn't know sign language. And Sandy just stared dumbly at the girl from One. Based on his expression, Jay could only infer he was thinking _Who invited her? I don_ _'_ _t want her part of our alliance._

"Ambrosia," Jay said kindly, offering a faint smile. "Maybe you could write it down? What you're saying?"

The silver-haired girl simply nodded, pushing herself up from the table and leaving the room in seek of Volt.

"I never have a _clue_ what she's trying to say to me," Jean huffed.

Jay hadn't really spoken to Jean before. What was he like? Mean, prideful, condescending. Easy enough. "Well, at least she _tries_ to talk to us. She's not like the little boys and girls in the other districts who are afraid of their own shadows…"

Jean cracked a smile: this girl understood him.

Jay offered a sly smile of her own: she was playing to Jean's personality.

"So, we're the final four alliance, right?" Sandy verified.

"Yes," Jay said, "And we can see if District Two wants to join us." Then she glanced at Jean. "But they'll probably just get in our way, anyway. And they'll be the first to go if our alliance gets too big."

"Uh huh," the boy from One agreed. "And honestly…" He pointed to the seat that Ambrosia had formerly occupied, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "I don't really mind dumping her off at any point. She's not career material, anyway."

Sandy chuckled, cracking his hand against the table in delight. "Yes!" He was in such a good mood now, Jay realized, unlike the previous night's claustrophobic sadism.

The girl nodded, grinning. "Duly noted."

"So what's the general plan?" Sandy asked. Save for the Avoxes and themselves, the room was empty. "Pick off the weak tributes? Pick off the threats?"

"The threats," Jay said. Then she cocked her head in pensive thought. "But…maybe not: if the weaker tributes band together _with_ the threats, then they'll only grow stronger."

"So maybe we _should_ take out the weaker tributes first," Jean confirmed. "We build our base at the cornucopia, of course."

"We'd all make pretty good hunters, I think," Sandy added. "Except for…" And he pointed to Ambrosia's vacant seat. "Ya know?"

"We could put her on guard duty?" Jay suggested. "Make sure our cornucopia doesn't get raided." In truth, she didn't really think the silver-haired girl was trustworthy enough… _yet_. But when Jay was done with her, Ambrosia would be her new best friend.

Jean coughed. "I dunno. She kinda sucks. Might take our stuff and run…or just be too useless to defend it."

Jay applied a facade of agreeable laughter. "That's true." Jean was surprisingly difficult to read: most careers were arrogant, but usually they were smart enough to know that overconfidence was a creeping killer. Did he realize this? Did he possess a secret vault of intelligence and higher-level thinking that was just so blatantly outshone by his candid vanity? A nagging part of her thought he _did_ , and she didn't like it at all.

Ambrosia returned, pen and paper in hand. Her message was already written out, and she dangled it kindly in front of Jean's face.

The boy snatched it, reading aloud: " _Jean, I don_ _'_ _t think you of all people should talk to Cole and Jade about allying with us. Leave it to me._ " The boy narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, 'me of all people'?"

Ambrosia merely shrugged, purposefully denying him the bliss of an explanation.

Jean glanced down at the paper again. "And when you say you'll 'talk' to Cole and Jade." His eyes alighted on Ambrosia's glowering expression. "I mean…"

She kicked him hard under the table.

"She's angry!" Jean teased, laughing. "I'm just fooling you. Fine, you can 'talk' to Cole and Jade, happy?"

The girl nodded, though she wanted nothing more than to rip his head off.

Jay watched the banter. Ambrosia appeared confident, not demoralized by her situation or even by Jean's witty—but undeniably cruel—words. However, she _did_ seem emotional. And emotional people needed friends, and someone who would listen to them; Jay intended to be that "friend".

Ambrosia then jotted down something else, wagging the paper between her three allies. " _Should we talk about strategies?_ "

Jay smiled welcomingly. "We were actually just doing that while you were gone," she said. "We intend to pick off the weaker tributes one by one. I suggest we travel in pairs of two at all times while hunting, just in case something goes wrong." Secretly, traveling in pairs of two would—near the final ten—give her the perfect opportunity to kill the other careers one at a time. And their deaths would be so easy to blame on something else—another tribute, a silly accident, a vicious muttation?

"Right," Sandy agreed. "And…and honestly? I really want Willow gone, _dead_."

"Yeah, you guys got pretty heated last night," Jean remembered. "Actually, mostly just you."

"I know," Sandy muttered, turning red. Then he smiled a little. "I was just…in sucha bad mood, I remember."

"I'll say," Jean concurred, and Sandy rolled his eyes.

Then the boy from Four continued: "But I just hate him, the way he parades around acting like he's the toughest guy in the arena. It's just… _annoying_. Leave him for me. _Please_."

Jay nodded, gently patting Sandy on the back. "He's yours for the kill," she promised. But what was he even referring to? Willow had done no 'parading around', nor did he even paint himself as the macho guy he was. Really, Jay saw him as a gentle giant, an obedient—and maybe even timid—follower whose physical appearance could only be attributed to his work in the fields, _not_ to some secret lust for murder and fame.

Heracles then entered the cafeteria, ambling over to the food-service counter in search of a drink.

"Well, time to move out," Jean puffed. Then he pushed himself up from the table, the entire thing moving and screeching beneath the weight of his bulging muscles. "I'll be at axe training."

The others stood as well, slowly shuffling toward the exit and mumbling their intended destinations.

"Aw, you didn't have to leave on my account," Heracles whistled, chuckling at them from the counter.

"We were leaving, anyway," Jean said firmly.

Heracles didn't believe him, but he nodded in compliance. "Oh, ouch. Awkward timing, then."

Jean's eyes were raised in amusement. "Yeah, awkward timing." Then they left the cafeteria, shuffling into the training facility's main, expansive room.

"He's so annoying," the boy from One muttered. "Heracles, or whatever his stupid name is."

"Yeah," Jay laughed. "I'd like to see you get your hands on him in the arena. Try not to break his neck _too_ quickly, though."

Jean simply smiled; this girl was a hoot.

Then Jay began to walk off toward the dagger-throwing station, but first she caught herself and spun around. "Oh, Ambrosia! If you want to train together, don't be afraid to come get me. It'll be fun, I promise." And she smiled heartwarmingly, and the girl from One smiled back.

She held up a paper: " _Thanks, I will._ "

When her allies dispersed, Jay walked over to the knife-throwing station. On the way, she saw Byren fumbling with camouflage paints, alone and helplessly desperate.

"That camouflage looks good," she complimented, passing him by with a gentle simper.

Byren looked dumbfounded. "Th-thanks…" he spluttered, as she continued walking away. Did a _career_ really just talk to _him_? Let alone _compliment_ him? It took a minute for his emotions to properly register what had happened, but when they did, he simply stood there, alone and grinning.

Jay found Arabella at the knife-throwing station, which was an entirely different room itself. Something about that girl from Eight just didn't sit right with her. The career narrowed her eyes, but quickly blinked away her cutting glare, instead replacing it was a charade of friendly warmth.

"Oh, hello, Jay," the girl said kindly. Arabella's angelic, philanthropic demeanor already proved irksome. Perhaps it was because she was such a high-spirited champion of kindness?

"Throwing knives?" Jay asked.

"Oh, yes!" Arabella smiled sheepishly. "U-um…" She was scrabbling at the knife in her hand, as though clumsily trying to understand which end was the handle and which was the blade.

Jay tapped a finger against her prosthetic arm; she could only imagine using it as a hard-shelled bludgeon with which to disintegrate Arabella's skull. "Here, let me help you," the career said, offering the widest grin she could muster. Then she went to Arabella's side, taking the other girl's hands and curling specific fingers around different parts of the knife's handle. "Here, grip it like this." And then Jay adjusted the girl's stance. "And stand here. Spread your feet out a little more. Shoulders up…" Then Jay backed away. "There, give it your best shot."

Arabella flung the knife, aiming for the dartboard. But the arc of her throw was wrong, and the blade plummeted noisily to the ground, skidding across the tile and gyrating out of control. "Oops…" she said, her tone embarrassed and downcast.

"You'll get better," Jay promised. "Just give it time, and always practice like I showed you."

Arabella perked up a little, the red bow in her hair giving the room some much-needed color. "Alright, well I definitely will. Thank you, Jay, really, for helping me! It means a lot…especially since you're a career. I…you're a _really_ good person."

The dim lights made Jay's eyes dance. "Aw, well…" She scrunched her shoulders together as though trying to dispel the flattery. "Just trying to help."

Arabella left soon thereafter, giggling and _tee-heeing_ her way out of the room. Jay smiled inward: she had shown Arabella the wrong way to grip the knife. She had taught Arabella an improper stance. She had convinced Arabella that she was a nice, trustworthy person. And, best of all, she had led Arabella one step closer to an inevitable death.

Boy, it was nice to be smart.

* * *

 **Byren Sauvy (District 5 Male)**

 _His book was too engrossing to realize the difference in the atmosphere that day at school. Byren was on his thirty minute class break, nestled comfortably in the corner of the library with a stack of lengthy novels for company. No people to bother him, no students to tease him about his unusually high voice, or his pale skin, or his shyness. Just Byren and his book: sweet solace._

 _He didn_ _'_ _t even hear the rising chitter-chatter a few tables over. This novel was a real page-burner: what would happen to the protagonist? Would he save the day, beat out the odds, and defeat his inner demons? Byren hoped so._

" _Hey, Byren,_ _"_ _a boy called from the table._

 _The raven-haired kid looked up; it was freckle-faced Renny Fields, and a group of his friends. They were all smiling mischievously at him, the sinister looks in their eyes making him wish he could sink into one of the shadowed declivities of the library and escape this socialization._ _"_ _Yeah?_ _"_

"By _-ren?_ _"_ _Renny asked, emphasizing the first syllable._

" _Yeah?_ _"_ _he repeated, confused._

" _What_ _'_ _s your name?_ _"_ _Renny prodded._ _"_ _BI-ren?_ BI- _ren?_ _"_

 _The boy didn_ _'_ _t understand, but everyone at the table was laughing, their hands covering their mouths in childish amusement. He could feel his voice faintly trembling, his falsetto tone even pitchier now._ _"_ _Wh-what?_ _"_

"BI _-ren,_ _"_ _Renny said, emphasizing that first syllable again._ _"_ _Don_ _'_ _t you get it? Like BI-sexual BI-ren?_ _"_

 _The small boy_ _'_ _s mouth fell agape, and he dropped his book. He would_ _'_ _ve picked it up, but he used his shaky hands to cover his rapidly reddening face. Just the previous evening he had told his only friends, Jonah and Evin, his secret. He had been mortified to tell them, awkward to the point where he hated himself for this_ _"_ _abnormality_ _"_ _. But now, they must_ _'_ _ve spilled his secret to_ every _body. Even if they didn_ _'_ _t, Renny Fields certainly would. Weren_ _'_ _t they his friends? Weren_ _'_ _t they supposed to care about him?_

 _When Byren didn_ _'_ _t respond_ _—_ _too flabbergasted to speak_ _—_ _Renny put a hand to his ear and asked,_ _"_ _What_ _'_ _s that? Did you say something? Or is your voice finally so high that we just can_ _'_ _t hear you anymore?_ _"_

 _A chorus of laughter resonated within the group at the table. Byren put a hand to his throat, as though he could examine the pitch of his voice._

" _We_ _'_ _ve left him speechless,_ _"_ _Renny cackled proudly, as though it were a magnificent achievement._

 _Renny_ _'_ _s sister joined in._ _"_ _Good, at least we don_ _'_ _t need to cover our ears when he speaks anymore._ _"_

 _And the table erupted in another round of squealing laughter._

 _Byren could feel the hot tears welling in his eyes. He was so embarrassed, so tired of being the source of everyone_ _'_ _s evil mockery. Why did people always get so much enjoyment out of being mean? What was it about him? What was it?! But he really did himself in this time: forget his shyness, awkwardness, his drastically underfed appearance. Thanks to his_ _"_ _friends_ _"_ _, his bullies hit the_ jackpot _._

" _You were with Jonah and Evin last night, weren_ _'_ _t you?_ _"_ _Renny asked._ _"_ _I always had a feeling you were more than just friends. So, did you guys_ _…_ _?_ _"_

" _No!_ _"_ _Byren screeched. He clacked his shaky fingers together, a nervous habit._

" _But did you want to?_ _"_

" _No!_ _"_ _he firmly repeated._

 _Renny whistled, leaning back in his chair as his group of hyena-faced friends listened enthusiastically to his every word._ _"_ _I don_ _'_ _t know about that. Jonah said you were getting_ really _comfortable last night. If you know what I mean._ _"_ _And he rose his eyebrows up and down a few times, licking his lips._

 _Tilly, Renny_ _'_ _s sister, was squawking like a hysterical bird._

" _I wasn_ _'_ _t!_ _"_ _Byren said, his voice straining as though he were pleading. Then he stood up, abandoning his books with the immediate intention of leaving._

" _Aw, where you going?_ _"_ _Renny asked._ _"_ _Break_ _'_ _s not over yet._ _"_

 _Byren looked so defeated, his shoulders slumping. He didn_ _'_ _t even want to speak in self-defense, for fear they would pick on his voice again._

" _I guess the kid just needs a little love in his life,_ _"_ _Tilly said, her plump cheeks unfurling into a monstrous grin._ _"_ _Byren, tell me you want me. Tell me I_ _'_ _m pretty._ _"_

 _Tilly was most certainly_ not _pretty_ _—_ _rather, she looked like a frumpy warthog. But Byren didn_ _'_ _t want to say anything at all, knowing that any response he gave would only feed the fire._

" _No,_ _"_ _Renny said, standing up so he could look down at Byren._ _"_ _He wants_ me _, doesn_ _'_ _t he?_ _"_ _He took a step toward the teary-eyed boy._ _"_ _You love boys so much, so show me what you_ _'_ _ve got._ _"_

 _Harmonized snickers were batted back and forth across the table. One of Renny_ _'_ _s friends whispered,_ _"_ _Look at him cry._ _"_

 _Byren couldn_ _'_ _t respond; he didn_ _'_ _t even know how. He just let the tears fall as he stared at the ground. Then he shuffled toward the exit without lifting his gaze, trying to pass Renny without further difficulty or argument._

 _But the freckled boy grabbed Byren_ _'_ _s shoulder, pinning him in his tracks._

" _Let_ _—_ _let me go!_ _"_ _Byren entreated, struggling against the older boy_ _'_ _s grasp. But Renny just held tighter, trying to squeeze the boy_ _'_ _s bones into submission._

" _Come on, Byren!_ _"_ _Renny insisted._ _"_ _Tell me that you love me_ _—_ _tell us all how you really feel._ _"_

" _NO!_ _"_ _Byren reeled back with all the strength he could manage, slipping out of Renny_ _'_ _s grip and hurling himself into a large stack of books and magazines. The tower of literature crumbled to the floor, with Byren on top. Renny and his friends burst into laughter, pointing judgmental fingers at the boy as he scrambled back to his feet._

 _The librarian rushed over in a huff._ _"_ _Byren Sauvy, you better clean up the mess you_ _'_ _ve just made!_ _"_

 _But the boy was already running off, tears creeping down his cheeks. As he ran out of the library, down the hall, and out of school, the vast majority of his fellow classmates took the opportunity to jeer insultingly at him, making a mockery of the poor boy. He wouldn_ _'_ _t be returning to school that day._

 _Byren went to the only place he deemed safe: home. He fled to his house_ _—_ _desperate and sobbing_ _—_ _brushing past his mother in the living room._

" _Byren?_ _"_ _his mother called as he sped past her, deep concern rooted in her voice._ _"_ _Byren, what_ _'_ _s the matter?!_ _"_

" _I hate myself!_ _"_ _he cried back, seeking the isolation of his bedroom. He slammed his door behind him, and the house fell into a harrowing silence._

And three years later, he still hated himself. Even his camouflage looked bad. Sure, Jay had insisted he was going a good job, but she probably only said that to keep him from spiraling into the nervous wreck that he truly was. He didn't just need to camouflage his body: he needed to camouflage all the hideous imperfections that defined him. _I hate myself._

Byren was frustrated, tired. He was going to die in that arena, and he understood there was very little he could do about it. These "training days" were futile: he could practice with a knife, maybe? It was the only deadly object he could wield with any measurable level of proficiency, but even that was only because he was a tinkerer and often needed to cut things, like rope.

He _did_ have some other talents—starting fires, building traps, recognizing poisonous berries—but his meager list of survival skills made him feel drastically inferior. What could he do with that? Lure people to him with a campfire, and catch them in a trap? And put some toxic berries cleverly nearby so they would accidentally poison themselves out of hunger? Actually, that didn't sound like a bad idea. If it weren't completely asinine. He was hopeless, wasn't he?

Byren scouted the training room: Rooper was breaking something apart with a steel-bladed sword, Hydan was reading a medicinal textbook, and his district partner, Fia, was busying herself with trap-building while arguing exasperatedly with a snooping Vivian. Everyone seemed to be keeping busy, except for him.

Perhaps he could try his hand with a weapon? Archery was off the table, considering his debilitating nearsightedness. And swordplay would prove ineffectual, since the weapon was probably too heavy for him, anyway. Maybe a spear?

He was happy to find the spear station completely vacated. The weapon felt strange in his hands; it should've made him feel powerful and dominant, but it only made him feel vulnerable. Maybe because he knew, deep down, that he probably looked like a complete fool?

He tried to adjust his grip, but he dropped the thing and it went clattering to the ground, rolling away. He sighed, picking it back up and maneuvering it awkwardly through the air, all the while hoping that no one had caught even a glimpse of his unsophisticated uselessness. He tried stabbing a dummy through the heart, but instead he missed and narrowly prodded its thigh.

It felt weird, almost alien: _stabbing_ something. To pierce skin—or in this case, fluffy padding—with a weapon intended singularly for murder. He didn't like it.

The spear got caught inside the dummy, jutting out like a lonely needle in thread. Byren tried tearing it out, but the dummy resisted, its face and synthetic eyes glaring directly into the boy's, hauntingly lifelike. It was teasing him, a horrifying recreation of death, that sharp-edged spear lodged firmly into its leg. The boy shuddered; pain, torture, murder—it felt so _wrong_.

He left the station, ignoring the dummy. Weapons weren't his forte, but he knew precisely what was: books, learning, and knowledge. If he couldn't out-kill his opponents, he could outlast and outsmart them.

* * *

 **Josaline** **"** **Josie** **"** **Tanner (District 10 Female)**

Josaline was getting tired of reading the voluminous tome describing the various flora and fauna that might be encountered inside the arena. "Kieson, let's go practice a weapon."

"One sec," the blonde said, holding up a finger as he quickly scanned the page he was reading. Then he snapped the book shut. "Okay, what do you wanna do?"

"Knives?" the short, spunky girl responded, deliberately selecting one of her strengths.

Kieson whistled a low, sad-sounding chirp. "Would've said sickles, myself, but I guess knives will do."

"No, then, let's do sickles," Josaline insisted.

"Alright, or we could do knives?"

Josaline released a hearty laugh, an effusive chortle that was hard to miss. "No, shut up! We're doing sickles, I've decided."

"Oh, well, I guess you're just Queen Bee then, aren't you?" Kieson hid a smile behind his indifferent visage.

The chocolate-haired girl could've punched him. "I don't even know why you're training with me, anyway."

"Because you insisted I come along with you? You know, you sure do a lot of insisting."

Josie pursed her lips in effort to stifle an imminent grin. "Yes, but it's because you don't listen well."

The boy's eyes lit up, pleased and energized, and he released a low chuckle. "See, I told everyone last night that you were a lot to handle, and they didn't believe me. And now this is what I'm stuck with."

" _Oh-h_ _…"_ This time she _did_ punch him in the shoulder. "Now, let's go train. Stop fooling around."

Kieson sighed and openly shook his head, wondering why he explicitly was the one responsible for carelessly "fooling around".

Only Annie Wickham was at the station, dabbling in the skill of sickle-wielding with mediocre—or worse—proficiency. It was obvious this wasn't the first time she'd ever held a weapon, but it was likewise apparent that the sickle was most certainly not her weapon of choice. Then again, it wasn't Josie's, either.

The tributes from Ten picked weapons from the rack. Then they fanned out—far enough away from Annie—in attempt to mock duel one another.

"No, stand there," Josie insisted, pointing to a specific point on the ground. "Why are you so far away?"

"I dunno," Kieson shrugged. "Have you ever used a sickle before? I don't need you accidentally cutting my arm off."

"No, I haven't," Josie admitted. "But I better learn, right? Now," she repeated, "Stand there."

Kieson complied, jokingly rolling his eyes as though saying, "What a feisty one."

Josie fiddled with the weight of the sickle in her hand, gripping the handle firmly with the death-squeeze inexperience that one would expect. She was decent with using knives, but sickles were an entirely different instrument, altogether. But they were sharp, piercing weapons—like knives—so they couldn't be _that_ different, right?

"You ready?" Kieson asked seriously.

"Yeah."

Josie made the first swipe, a gentle, reserved swing. She wasn't sure if she was so timid because the weapon was unfamiliar, or because she was afraid of injuring Kieson—but they were wearing suits of body padding, so did it really matter?

Her offensive was a mere prod. It was difficult adjusting for the curvature of the blade, and she found herself stabbing with the weapon head-on as though it were a straight-edged knife. It required some difficult manipulation: leaving a wide enough radius with which to swing in order for the point of the blade to land a decisive blow. And she made the same mistake over and over—her knife-wielding muscle memory a detriment—but her perseverance outshone the growing frustration, so she kept trying.

Their jousting continued for a few minutes. Kieson was simply batting away her assaults with deflective maneuvers, intentionally withholding an offensive of his own: Josie was new to the weapon, and she needed time to learn and feel comfortable before he countered with his own attacks.

Over time, the girl fell into a well-adjusted rhythm. Her swings were more confident, and despite Kieson's easy evasions, the weapon didn't feel completely foreign anymore. She even slowly backed him into a corner once—though perhaps he let her?—making a vicious offensive with somewhat erratic slicing patterns.

"Do people really fight with sickles?" she asked finally. They didn't really seem like dueling weapons; they were certainly no swords, after all.

"Not normally," Kieson said. "Not ideally, at least. But it's always good to learn something new."

Josie ignored his comment, motioning toward the sickle in his hand. "Show me what _you_ _'_ _ve_ got." Then she pointed one of the dummies lining the wall.

"Do I have a choice?" he whistled smoothly.

"No."

Kieson shrugged. "Well, I see you're undecided." He ambled slowly toward the dummy, not particularly fond of showing off. But in the heat of the moment, he _destroyed_ the stuffed mannequin: a few upward hooks, followed by a cruel-looking grappling slice—where he reeled in the dummy with the curvature of the sickle, effectively pinning the lifeless figure against him and driving the blade through its back—topped off with the embellished flourishes and eye-popping tricks of a seasoned professional. The eighteen year old left only the eviscerated tatters of the dummy's former life in his wake.

Josie's eyes bulged. "Where did you _learn_ that?"

"Oh, you know, working on the farms and such," he answered, as though it were painfully obvious.

"No…no, no, _no!_ " the girl disagreed. "Tell me," she demanded. "There's no way you learned moves like that working on the farms."

Kieson acted unfazed, biting the tips of his fingernails. Then with his other hand, he pointed to the shredded dummy. "I mean, it's not exactly made out of concrete, you know. Just stuffing and some really flimsy plastic."

Josie rolled her eyes, unfamiliar with being challenged; normally her friends complied with her every demand. "I _know_. It's just, you looked like you've _trained_ with sickles before. Not just use them for work, but actually _fought_ with them…"

But the boy simply spread his hands as though suggesting he had nothing to hide, which Josie didn't believe for a second.

Even Annie looked shocked, her mouth still agape as she stared at the heaping husk of the once-was dummy that now littered the floor. "Josaline's right," Annie said, sparkling wonder in her voice. "That was amazing."

The girl from Ten smiled. "You may call me Josie."

Annie returned the pearly grin. "Oh, thank you."

Josie liked this girl; she seemed happy-go-lucky, and surprisingly carefree considering the circumstances. Annie would probably make a good follower, she realized. And Kieson—if he were willing to cooperate—would certainly be the first of her minions.

"I can help you girls," Kieson said, gesturing toward their sickles. "If you'd like to practice, maybe I could give you some tips?"

Annie appreciated the suggestion, nodding vigorously. Josie was tempted to demand answers first— _where on Earth did he get those skills?_ _—_ but she ignored the hankering and simply agreed to his suggestion. "Yes, please."

"Let's line up," he said, "and you guys can try to replicate my expert, fluid motions."

Josie shuddered at his joking immodesty, falling into line at his left. Annie stood at his right, and the three all faced the same direction, their sickles at the ready. "Now," he began, "Let's just try some smooth, basic motions." And he slowly started slicing the blade through the air, repeating the same maneuver multiple times until his trainees could mimic him with sufficient accuracy.

"Wait," Josie said. "Let's spread out." She motioned toward Kieson. "You're standing too close to me."

"I won't stab you, if that's what you're thinking."

"Annie, let's separate a few feet, okay?" Josie coordinated, feeling the insistent desire to lead and organize in place of Kieson's teaching. The girl from Three simply nodded and complied. "Alright, good. We can start again."

"Is everything perfect now?" Kieson queried.

Josie nodded. "Yes."

"Are you sure? I could fetch you a drink?" he suggested. "Give you a shoulder rub? I'm sure there's some—"

"Just _go_ ," Josie huffed, trying not to smile but unable to withstand Kieson's humorous—but purposefully gear-grinding—sarcastic wit.

The boy continued with his demonstration; it was fascinating to see his masterful brandishing frozen down to the slow-motion teaching pace. And he was a _good_ teacher, at that—suspiciously _too_ good. He explained the easiest way to defend, the quickest and most effortless methods to disarm your opponent, and, of course, a myriad of sneaky techniques to trick your opponent into a premature death. But why in the world would he divulge such critical tactics to them? Josie and Annie undoubtedly appreciated his guidance, but they were still his enemies. Was he too trusting? Too desperate for allies? Josie wanted to believe he was just a good, fair person, but she couldn't imagine there being no strings attached.

Suddenly an eruptive bellow echoed from across the training room. "Alright, everyone, listen up!" Volt roared. Once he had everyone's attention—or rather, everyone who was within ear's reach—he said, "You idiots don't have many rules you need to follow in here, but can you _please_ not try to _kill each other?_ _"_

Josie saw the Peacekeeper shoot an incisive glare at Vivian and Elias.

Vivian pouted her lips. "If that's what you thought killing each other looked like, then—"

" _Enough!_ " Volt cut her off, chopping a hand across the air as though it were an axe with which he could quiet the back-talkers. "I don't need you getting snippy with me, girl." Then he turned to face the general direction of his listeners. "And that goes for the rest of you, as well! I understand you're all _sad_ and _depressed_ that you're probably going to die a _horrible death_ …" His voice was now taking on a baby-like quality, the way an adult would placate a child. "But if the Capitol sets rules, you better _follow them_. Understand?"

After the collective nod, the Peacekeeper added, "Good. Now, get back to training. After all, one of ya will be able to salvage what's left of your petty life if you manage to win the games…" And then Volt waved around his hands, signaling the end of his interjection.

"That's…a bit harsh…" Annie mumbled. Josie just hiccuped nervously, otherwise silent.

Kieson shrugged, chewing on the neckline of his outfit. "I'm sure our buddy Volt just had a rough childhood. Which completely justifies being cruel to teenagers he's never met before."

Josie ignored him. "He's a Peace _keeper?_ " she emphasized. "A Peace _killer_ , maybe," she cracked.

Kieson stared at her blankly. "Please, never try to tell a joke again."

"Shut up," Josie moaned. "Just go back to teaching us…"

* * *

 **END OF DAY 2**

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** (answer as many of the following as you want)

1\. How do you like Jay's strategy? Outwardly nice, but inwardly sinister and ever-plotting. Do you think this will do her good, or lead to an eventual downfall?

2\. Is Byren too soft for the games, or do you think that, after everything he's been through, he isn't as completely hopeless as he thinks he is?

3\. Do you think Josie's "leader" personality will do her good, or serve as a drawback? Would she make a good leader of a several-tribute alliance?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hoowee! That was a long chapter, and it's only the FIRST of the training days. The other two training days are split up over four chapters, so by the end pretty much every tribute will get their own personalized "section", plus a roughly equivalent amount of screen-time. Lots more character backstories to introduce (and later expand upon) and character alliances and friendships to build! Let me know what you think!

See you soon!


	15. Alliance Unseen

**Website:** (I made a few updates but nothing major). Link:

http COLON SLASH SLASH nothingcomeswithoutsacrificefanfiction DOT weebly DOT com

 **Author's Note:** I'm soooo happy I'm finally done school for the winter break, so hopefully my writing schedule can be somewhat normal now! Anyway, this chapter is another long one (they're all be pretty much super long until after the training days), so there's that. Anyway, let's take a look at 4 more tributes POVs...

* * *

 **Alliance Unseen**

 **Chapter 15**

* * *

 **Jade** **"** **Poison** **"** **Hemlock (District 6 Female)**

It was the morning of the second training day. Sleep last night was futile: either it didn't come swiftly, or her dreams were plagued by the nightmarish horrors that Poison feared most. Not seeing her family again, getting betrayed in the arena, being eaten alive by the carnivorous muttations that stalked the twilit shadows.

Poison shifted on the mattress, glancing at her bedside clock: 7:04 AM. It was early. Her escort and mentor wouldn't be up for another hour, and Hydan was notoriously guilty of sleeping twelve hours a day, getting unpleasantly caustic when his precious sleep is interrupted. He definitely wouldn't be awake anytime soon.

She lay there, mentally and physically incapacitated. Her mind took the opportunity to wander, to escape the rigid contours of its concrete bounds and plumb the depths of the abstract. Like a solid turned liquid, her thoughts melting like candle-wax and oozing into the narrow fissures that were formerly unreachable:

 _Poison was sitting on the tattered couch, the TV blazing its polychromatic lights into the encroaching darkness of the living room. Her mother, Sash, sat adjacent with fear-ridden eyes and white, shaky knuckles. And Opin, the girl_ _'_ _s father, paced endlessly back and forth_ _—_ _behind the couch, in front of the TV_ _—_ _with no destination in mind._

 _On the television was the crisp display of the 307_ _th_ _games. Poison had begged him not to volunteer. Begged_ _on her hands and knees with tears in her eyes. Arou was more than her brother: he was her best friend, the kind of friend you wait all day to see, just so you could tell them about every crazy thing that happened to you during the infinitesimal moment you weren_ _'_ _t by their side. She could tell him anything, laugh with him about anything_ _—_ _even the ridiculous things that no one could understand, but him. And_ _"_ _getting angry at him_ _"_ _constituted a feeble attempt to put on an unhappy face for more than five minutes before unavoidably forgiving him and laughing with him about something else altogether._

 _But in this moment_ _—_ _in front of the TV that gleamed hideous visualizations of the 307_ _th_ _games_ _—_ _she was angry with him. Maybe it wasn_ _'_ _t anger, but something even worse: the gnawing feeling of betrayal. Why had he volunteered? To leave his friends, his family, his ten year old_ sister _behind? He wanted to prove to Panem that District Six could win the games, but was that vindication really worthy of the expense? Poison didn_ _'_ _t believe it was_ _—_ _not for a million years._

 _Something cold hung in the air that night. As she and her family watched the TV_ _—_ _their third day with no sleep_ _—_ _Poison felt the nagging inkling that_ some _thing was going to happen. Something different, something out of the ordinary, something drastic. She didn_ _'_ _t know what, nor could she ascertain if it was a good or bad feeling, but she could just_ feel _the tendrils of premonition pervading her brain. Somehow, she knew._

 _At her side, Sash cupped her hands together, the dark bags under her eyes underlining the nonexistent sleep she saw; she looked pathetically hopeful, just watching that TV. It was the third day Arou was in the arena, and the tension and unwillingness to accept his probable fate had had diluted her faith with false belief._

 _Opin was continuing his pacing, muttering something under his breath. He glanced up at the TV every now and then to see if the camera was focusing on his son, but otherwise he kept his head down. The incessant pacing_ _—_ _step, step, step_ _—_ _was driving Poison insane. The sound was like a clock ticking down to its inevitable termination._

 _Sash turned up the volume to drown out the sound of her husband_ _'_ _s pitter-patter. Poison covered her ears reflexively, afraid to let the vile noises of the arena saturate her mind and sanity._

" _He_ _…_ _he volunteered_ _…_ _volunteered_ _…_ _he_ _'_ _s_ _…_ _he_ _'_ _s gone_ _…_ _he_ _'_ _s not_ _…_ _no hope_ _…_ _volunteered_ _…_ _going to die._ _"_ _Her father_ _'_ _s hopeless utterances were like knives to Poison_ _'_ _s weak grasp on hope._

" _Please, don_ _'_ _t say that,_ _"_ _Sash would implore when her husband began his unintelligible ramblings._ _"_ _He_ _'_ _ll make it! He_ _'_ _ll survive_ _…_ _Arou, please_ _…_ _survive_ _…"_

 _Poison wanted to cry and scream just at the mention of her brother_ _'_ _s name. But her emotions caught in her throat as the boy himself was shown onscreen._

 _Arou looked so small_ _—_ _probably because he was_ _—_ _only fifteen years old. The camera panned to various angles of the boy as he nimbly jogged through the dark, night-encrusted forest. His maneuvers were quiet, and he held a newly-acquired spear in his hand. At least he could defend himself, Poison realized._

 _Arou came upon a small clearing, neatly tucked away within the vast expanse of the encompassing forest. The clearing was picturesque, probably beautiful during the day, but even more enchanting now, in the night. The surrounding Capitol-engineered dandelions were bioluminescent, emitting an earthly glow that filled the clandestine hideaway with vibrant white bulbs. Some of the puffy wisps flitted in the wind, unattached to their former stems and now painting the air with faint silvery illumination._

 _The boy viewed the scene in awe, as though his entire awareness of the games had vanished for a few brief moments. He stepped into the clearing, picking his way carefully to the center, almost afraid of disturbing the captivatingly sublime nature. Arou knelt in the soft grass, cupping the fluffy poof of a whimsical glowing dandelion around his fingers. It was like the entire world and all its beauty stood still for an ephemeral, pristine moment._

 _But the serenity ceased, transported by the familiar sound of a human_ _'_ _s heavy footsteps running through the grass. Arou shot up, dropping his spear out of accidental fright. He snatched it up, turning quickly with the intent of fending off the approaching aggressor. But the boy was too late._

 _His back was already pierced by the edge of the sharp sword, the entire blade sinking deep into his stomach with a sickening crunch. The career from Four withdrew the sword from the boy_ _'_ _s stomach, and Arou slumped onto the grass, unmoving and lifeless. The dandelions seemed to glow dimmer, the once-was beauty of the sanctuary now snuffed by the tainted mark of merciless bloodshed._

Poison's eyes shot open as she gasped breathlessly, oxygen eluding her as though she had been hit hard in the stomach. Her body was shaking all over, the horrific memories of Arou's death peeling away at her sanity. She could picture it so vividly, the blade slicing through his back, his writhing silhouette backdropped so paradoxically against the verdant beauty of the flower-lit forest.

It was horrible— _horrible_. It ate away at her. To lose the person she always loved, who she loyally believed would stay by her side forever. He just disappeared…he _left_ her. And worst of all, his last memory or her was a bad, unhappy one: her refusal to speak to him before he was whisked onto the train, never to return.

And it didn't stop there. Opin— _Dad_ —was gone within the hour. When Arou died, the man had a meltdown: he drunk himself into a stupor, and wrote himself off with his spilled red-blotted ink.

Arou and Opin, they _both_ lefther.

Poison felt one of her routine panic attacks coming on, so she quickly hopped out of bed and got changed in attempt to avoid her insistent mental torture. Instead, she thought of Sash, her mom, one of the only things left in her life. But it must've killed the poor woman—Poison was beginning to tear up now—to know that she was going to lose her daughter to the games, too.

Poison exited her bedroom, stepping into the sunbathed circular living area. Thinking of her mother was a reminder of the reapings. Onstage, cold and shaking from the chilling realization that she would be the game's newest victim. But while she was getting reaped, what had her _mom_ been doing?

Poison switched on the television, which was no more than a thin, flexible piece of electronics-enabling glass that suspended from the ceiling. The two hundred inch screen looked like a sheeny piece of rollable plastic.

With some difficulty and a little remote control button-mashing, the girl was able to find and play the saved video recap of her reapings. Just seeing the camera pan over District Six made her stomach squirm in discomfiture.

" _Ladies first,_ _"_ the escort had chimed. Then she dug around in that bowl for what seemed like an eternity. _"_ _Jade Hemlock._ _"_

The girl shuddered at the sound of her name. She hadn't realized how enthusiastic the escort looked, but now, watching on the television with the aid of close-up camera angles, she saw the disgusting excitement with which the plastic-faced woman brimmed.

" _Jade Hemlock, sweetie! Please come to the stage_ _—_ _we_ _'_ _re excited to meet you!_ _"_ And the camera swept to the tribute in question, a quavering, sanity-stripped girl whose panicky appearance suggested she needed a trip to the nearest asylum. _"_ _Yes, sweetie! Please come!_ _"_

Tears began to fester for release as Poison watched herself on the TV. But what truly made her heart rend was the image on her mother's face. Sash looked more devastated than Poison could have even imagined. The woman's strained choking…she was trying _so_ hard not to cry, her hands up to her lips in effort to stifle her emotions.

But when Poison's hunched, trembling figure mounted the stage, the woman—her _mom_ —completely lost it. Hysterical sobbing, clawing at her hair as though she just wanted to rip it out. She tried to rush past the tributes-only fence, but a Peacekeeper quashed her efforts, restricting her with her arms held behind her back, as though she were a _criminal_.

Watching this now on the TV, from within the Capitol—within the training center _itself_ —Poison wanted to _scream_. She wanted to bludgeon that Peacekeeper to death. Rip his soul from his self-entitled body and shove it down the throats of every Capitol citizen who dared mess with her. She wanted to get back to her mom, tell her everything would be okay. She wanted to live the rest of her days _free_ of the hateful games that have _stolen_ everything she ever loved.

First Arou.

Then Opin.

Now Poison herself.

And, she feared, Sash would follow in Opin's footsteps not long thereafter. An entire family eradicated by the games, leaving no trace of their existence or purpose in its wake. No, no _no!_ If the TV weren't made of durable, flexible glass, she would've smashed the thing with her bare hands.

That Peacekeeper, Poison's annoying escort, everyone in the Capitol, President Amethyst Lamita—yes, the legendary _President_ —could all choke on their own self-righteous, hideous inner-selves for all she cared. Because Poison Hemlock was going to win the games.

* * *

 **Elias Severio (District 11 Male)**

Volt was as irritatingly moody as ever that day. He constantly insulted the tributes as they trained—Elias included—for no specific reason other than to make himself appear more formidable. He _did_ have several amusing squabbles with Vivian, though, which made her district partner from Eleven revel in unspoken joy.

But it was tough being the youngest tribute, and the only twelve year old, in the arena. It was even tougher going through life with that tormenting, incomplete feeling that no one ever understood him. And was that how he was going to die? _Never_ meeting a true friend around whom he could be himself? To not put on an act for? Or to shield his inner, deep-rooted feelings from?

Elias was at the knife-training station, brandishing a small dagger. He had learned a few crucial self defense maneuvers from being in a gang. It wasn't much— _slice, hook, jab!_ —but it was enough to make him feel relatively secure.

One side of the station was a floor-to-ceiling wall of mirrors, offering convenient reflections through which the boy could study the precision of his dagger-wielding. He would retract into a readied position, then deliver a swift strike at the air, landing cutting blows on his invisible opponent. The boy even experimented with some artistic flourishes and tricks, in the chance his prowess was being scrutinized by onlooking tributes.

Lezar was next to him, practicing with a knife of his own. He was that pale, timid boy from Eight, Elias remembered. Thirteen years of age, if he recalled correctly—not much older than he was. It was almost uncharacteristic to see Lezar of all people wielding a weapon, and admittedly the boy was pretty good. Elias knew Lezar could use a little work—he could pinpoint a few technique flaws—but his talents were nothing to scoff at.

Then the boy from Eight tried a different maneuver and he dropped the knife, sending it clattering to the floor. Elias would have picked it up for him, but being part of a gang did _not_ warrant philanthropy. He heard Lezar sigh with hopeless self-defeat as he scraped up his dropped dagger.

Elias felt bad for the boy: Lazar had such extreme social anxiety and he was probably so self-critical that he could barely function. Then again, Elias was similar—though to a less extreme extent—but he always found it easier to feel bad for someone else, rather than himself. But _no_ —he shouldn't feel empathetic. His gang told him empathy was a weakness.

It was Elias's turn to sigh; his mind was churning with contradictory thoughts. He enjoyed being part of a gang…it was something that _defined_ him. The other members were the closest things he would ever find to people who actually understood him, people who would actually give him the acceptance he desperately yearned for.

But he was scared of the gang: it required immorality. They recruited bad people, but Elias didn't think he was a bad person. He didn't _want_ to steal, but he would empty the pockets of the wealthiest aristocrats if his gang members made him. And he didn't _want_ to bully—and, more often then not, beat into a bloody pulp—the poor kids in his town, but if those were his orders, he would obediently abide with the convincing deception that he was well-suited for the thug life.

Looking now at the boy from Eight, it was gut-wrenching to realize that Lezar would have probably been one of those kids who Elias bullied—or worse. Well, _whatever_ , it would've been worth it, right? If it meant that his gang would continue to accept him?

Then Lezar attempted another advanced flourish of his dagger, dropping it again. It landed close to Elias, but the boy from Eleven evaded eye contact with it.

"S-sorry…" Lezar said quietly.

Elias couldn't respond, nor could he help him, if he wanted to retain any fragment of his intimidation. Benevolence would only make him look like a weak little twelve year old with nothing to offer.

Lezar retrieved his dagger nervously from alongside Elias, hoping he wasn't being a pester. He wanted to move father down along the wall, but Jean was there stabbing a dummy's brains out. And Elias was—not intentionally—centered in front of the mirror and thereby taking up a lot of space. Lezar didn't want to keep bothering the boy from Eleven, so he opted to leave.

Elias noticed the other boy's shifting eyes, followed by deep consideration, and then his final decision to simply exit the station before he could prove any more a nuisance. Elias sighed heavily, straining his face upward as he outwardly rolled his eyes. "Lezar, wait," he called, biting his lip.

The uneasy boy turned around, his eyes nervously searching the ground to avoid meeting Elias's gaze. "I-I'm so sorry…I really didn't mean to drop the knife…"

Elias was taken aback for a brief moment. Did Lezar really think he was _angry_ about that? "No, no, it's okay," he assured in a gentle-hearted voice. "But you don't have to stop training. See, I'll move over—I didn't mean to take up so much room." If his gang ever found out about even this meager act of kindness, they would probably kill him. But his gang wasn't _here_ , so he didn't care. He wasn't going to live the last of his days feeding the lie that he had been shamefully cultivating. He _was_ a nice person.

Lezar looked like he wanted to decline the offer. He glanced from Jean then back to Elias, barely making eye contact. "Umm…I don't know. I might just get in the way…" He glanced at the dagger still in his hands. "I keep dropping it."

"That's easy to fix," Elias said with steadfast certainty.

"It…it is? But how?"

"Well…" the twelve year old started. "I can help you." The words felt foreign to him as he tried to sound as natural as possible, not used to treating kids like Lezar very kindly. Then he added, "Um…you don't even need much help. You're already really good with the knife."

"R-really?" An involuntary smile crept onto Lezar's face—a compliment felt nice in a world so unforgivingly plagued by evil intent. "I—uh, uhmm—thank you…"

"We can practice," Elias offered. "If you want. Maybe we can…learn a few moves off each other?"

The boy watched as Lezar transitioned through his customary nervous swallow, followed by the downcast flutter of his skittish eyes, concluded with the anxious half-breath he always took before speaking. "Um…yeah. I think I'd like that."

Both boys jumped at the horrendous sound of bones—or _something_ —breaking. They turned to see Jean crouched over a disemboweled dummy, cutting straight through the plastic and fabric with the brute driven force behind his knife. The shredded remains of the mannequin littered the floor like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle, the career taking obvious pride in the brutality of his work.

Elias bit his lip nervously and Lezar winced—neither boy wanted to be fated to a similar destiny as that poor dummy.

When Jean was done smashing the model's skull into obliterated dust, he stood up, arms spread out wide as though savoring his own glory. Then he noticed the two younger boys looking at him, and he said, "See that?" And he pointed to the dummy. "That'll be you in the arena."

Elias swallowed hard. "Oh, shut up," he said, trying to sound assertive—he _couldn_ _'_ _t_ show weakness to someone like Jean. But really, he knew he would've jumped out of his skin if Jean even so much as moved a threatening muscle.

But instead, the career simply grinned. "You're asking for it in the arena, kid." Then he chuckled, kicking the broken pieces of the dummy into the wall and leaving the room. For a moment, both boys stood in silent terror, as though rooted to their spots by the very fear that infested their troubled minds.

"I don't like Jean," Lezar mumbled quietly, remembering the insulting comments with which the career had bludgeoned him during the white room test.

" _No one_ likes Jean," Elias mumbled, gritting his teeth. Lezar had to smile at this. Then the boy from Eleven added, "But no one's worse than Vivian."

Lezar's smile widened into a persistent ear-to-ear grin. "Y-yeah, but…you're really good at…overcoming them. I'm terrified of Jean and Vivian, but you seem confident."

"I do?" Elias asked. "At least I'm fooling someone."

"Wait. Y-you mean, you're not…?"

Elias openly shrugged. "No. Deep down, I'm a little scared. Or _very_ scared. You know, we're really not all that different."

Lezar looked surprised—it wasn't really customary for him to meet people who "really weren't all that different" from his own weirdness, but it was an utterly heartwarming feeling, nonetheless.

And things were even better once they started practicing. Elias was able to teach Lezar some crucial self-defense moves, and a few other offensive and opponent-tricking maneuvers that he had learned from his gang. And Lezar was able to demonstrate some of his own tactics, even offering the boy from Eleven some simple instructions in the art of knife-throwing. And all the while, the two boys slowly opened up to each other: Elias noticed Lezar's fading social awkwardness as he began to lower his normally defensive shell. And even Elias himself felt more comfortable, enough that he slightly dropped his guarded demeanor, unafraid and almost welcoming of the opportunity to not live behind the closed-off doors with which he surrounded himself.

Elias still didn't think anyone could ever understand him, but Lezar was the closest thing he had now to a friend. Giving empathy a chance, he realized, wasn't such a weak move, after all.

* * *

 **Sierra Kyles (District 7 Female)**

"Volt, that Peacekeeper won't let me use the fire-starting station," Sierra said, a coy lilt contouring her words.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have been trying to light everything on fire," the head Peackeeper responded dryly.

Sierra tugged at his shoulder, like a child pleading. "I promise I won't do it again." Then she squeezed his shoulder gently. "Please?"

" _No,_ " he said brashly. "And stop _smiling_ at me like that. And stop _touching_ me." He flicked her hand from his shoulder, taking an uncomfortable step back. The young man looked exhausted, disturbing his gelled hair with an exasperated hair-slicking hand. "You should be training; stop pestering me."

"But _Volt_ …" The red-haired girl took an unflustered step toward him, reaching for his arm.

" _Hey!_ What did I say about touching me? Now, go take your slutty self elsewhere."

Sierra just rolled her eyes, abandoning her attempt at seduction with a passive whisk of her hand. Please, she wouldn't even want to have sex with his ugliness, anyway…

"Bye," Sierra waved to him as she walked away, her voice far-off and deadpan.

The girl stood in the middle of the training facility, looking full-circle for a station at which to train. She glimpsed the fire-starting station with crestfallen yearning, banished from the nonhuman object of her immediate desire.

 _An inky, humanoid silhouette stood at the foot of the dilapidated building at the edge of town. It was just a warehouse, an abandoned one at that_ _—_ _nothing of value, only a nuisance taking up space._

 _Everything was dark, painted even darker by the starless night sky. The murk-ridden small hours were the best of Sierra_ _'_ _s friends, and tonight they would be something even more_ _—_ _they would be her accomplice._

 _The girl had a wagon-load of gasoline canisters; the stuff was a rarity in Panem, but when you_ _'_ _re the daughter of the mayor, it becomes easily and readily affordable._

 _This was her first major act of illegality, she realized. Crime wasn_ _'_ _t her passion, but fire was her ambition. And she grew bored of burning clothing, furniture, and uninteresting trinkets. She wanted to set the entire world ablaze._

 _Sierra doused the outside of the warehouse in gasoline, paying extra attention to the highly flammable woodworked parts of its architecture. A trail of fuel led her a safe distance away, and from that remote distance, she lit a match and let the building burn._

 _She was surprised how fast the fire spread. Just one little spark quickly transmuted into a roaring conflagration. The entire building grew weak, struggling and undignified as the parasitic flames dissolved its structure. The warehouse creaked, its burning screeches buried behind the sound of crackling flames._

 _Sierra watched the roaring inferno with dazzled wonder; she couldn_ _'_ _t linger long, but savored the beautiful moments that she spent mystified in the face of the red-hot monster. Standing so powerless before the rage of Mother Nature was a majestic, metaphysical experience. To Sierra, it was the sheer visualization of nature_ _'_ _s magnificent pulchritude, aliasing itself in the sublime manifestation called Fire._

 _A few loose branches had caught ablaze along the girl_ _'_ _s gasoline trail to safety. Sierra grasped a now-extinguished twig, its sharp point smoldering and coughing out fumes from its charred tip. With it, the girl traced a small X on her forearm, the hot end of the stick branding her skin and printing brown abrasions in the tender flesh. She winced, lurching back her head as though she could distance herself from the masochistic pain. But she didn_ _'_ _t relinquish the branch until her work was done, and proof of the night had been etched crudely into her body, her soul._

She was banished from fire, but the explosives station was available and nearly vacated. She saw Annie hunched over a table and tampering with some sort of artificial bomb, the girl from Three surrounded by wires and electrical devices like a scientific madwomen working arduously on her latest project.

Annie was about to connect the final necessary wire when Sierra walked past from behind, slipping her hand along the table and scooping up the wire into her palm. Annie reached for the wire, only feeling smooth thin air. When she realized it had disappeared, she scrunched up her face in confusion.

"You okay?" Sierra asked, innocence in her tone.

"Uhh, yeah…I'm just…" Annie was looking on the floor and checking on top of the desk, bafflement strewn across her face. "I must've lost a wire…"

"Oh, is this it?" Sierra said, revealing the wire as though she had just found it. "You dropped it," she added in her occasionally expressionless tone.

"Oh! Thank you, you found it!" Annie smiled.

The kleptomaniac returned the smile. "No problem. Is that a bomb you're building?" She looked at the contraption on the table, putting a gentle hand on Annie's shoulder as the girl from Three nodded affirmatively. "Well, it looks really good," Sierra said, her voice taking on a mysteriously low air as she leaned in close.

"Thank you so much!" Annie responded, taking the compliment to heart with her life-is-good attitude.

"Like, it looks really cool," Sierra said. "You're from Three, so you must be amazing at this kind of stuff." She was patting Annie's shoulder now.

But the girl from Three appeared oblivious to Sierra's hands-on friendliness, accepting her flattery with more cheery nods and heartfelt smiles. As far as she was concerned, Sierra was one of the most amiable people she'd ever met. "Thanks! I guess I'm pretty good."

"Well, keep up the good work." Sierra winked. "Anyway, I'll be over here if you need me."

Annie nodded vigorously as the other girl walked to the opposite side of the explosives station. There, Sierra pulled up a chair at the table and began fumbling with the mechanical objects and wires that littered the area. It became quickly apparent that she wouldn't be any good at bomb-making without proper instruction. The girl sighed; Annie was, admittedly, a little naive for teaching, and the Peacekeeper "trainer" who was stationed in the room for assistance would probably kick her out once she started flirting with him.

Sierra often wondered if her beauty was a detriment. She used it as a weapon, as a bewitching device with which she could seduce and effectively manipulate others. And it worked. But sometimes she felt _too_ weird. Was it good to be different? A lusty, klepto- and pyromaniacal girl with enough self-inflicted burn marks on her chest, arms, and legs to rival a spotted leopard? Sometimes she wondered if just being a normal teenage girl would be better for everyone. It was times like these that she hated herself— _truly_ hated herself.

Suddenly Willow sat down next to her, occupied by his own bomb-building dabbling. He was that boy from Nine, she recognized—respectable, polite, and the seemingly primary target of Sandy's ruthlessness. He was a foot taller than she was, but the height difference did nothing to detract from his nice-guy charm.

"Hey," he said to her, quiet but dignified. "Do you know what you're doing?" He nodded toward her own conglomeration of wires and ill-placed electrical components.

"No," she said, spreading her arms wide in obvious perplexity. "I'm good at sitting here looking confused, though."

Willow managed a small, single laugh. "I guess we could use some help, right?" He swiveled on his chair, turning toward the lingering Peacekeeper who stood at the far end of the room. But Sierra quickly grabbed his arms, pulling him toward her, first.

"I think we could figure it out, ourselves," she said. Then with one hand she flicked a few loose strands of her red hair behind her shoulder. "I mean, we won't have help in the arena, you know?"

"True," Willow answered, lightly tapping his foot beneath the table. He glanced down awkwardly at her hand that was still grabbing his arm.

Sierra noticed his situational discomfort and smiled inwardly: she loved freaking people out. So she scooted her chair closer to his, close enough that their arms and legs touched, a decisive invasion of his privacy.

"Let's work together," she said, running her hand through her hair with the delicate touch of attempted infatuation.

Willow looked uncomfortably surprised, his eyebrows raised in telltale shock and fluster. "Uh-um…alright then."

Sierra set to work. They were experimenting with cables and small chips that were designed to simulate explosions. It wasn't uncommon for the girl's hand to brush "accidentally" against Willow's firm forearm. Then she would titter a quick "oops" in attempt to draw attention to her flirtatiousness.

"Here, let me try this," Willow said, attaching several wires and miniature devices together in some inexplicable combination. Some of the formerly unlit LED panels on the power source of their makeshift bomb illuminated with a "beep".

"Oh, that must be good," Sierra said in that low, far-off voice, grabbing Willow's leg.

The boy jumped at the feeling of her hand, standing himself up from the chair out of reflexive impulse. "I—I don't even know what I did," he admitted. "Just trying to figure stuff out…"

"Sit down." Sierra winked. "Don't be shy."

The older, taller boy blushed a little, but complied instantly with her request, as was his nature. "Oh, okay…" He shifted uneasily in his seat, scared as though Sierra were a crazed lunatic and not just some innocent teenage girl. "Um, are you going to touch me again?"

Sierra didn't always believe in honesty, but in this case she simply shrugged. "Yes, probably."

Willow shuddered.

And Sierra nudged his arm.

* * *

 **Roopertutino (District 12 Male)**

"Keep your eyes on the target…stay level-headed. Remember, your opponent is just waiting for you to make a mistake. Steady now…calm, don't be rash…think long before you strike. See the blade…envision what's going to happen before you even strike. Wait, don't rush your opportunity, because you will get many. And don't forget: keep breathing."

Rooper slashed his sword downward, the blade cutting a piercing ring through the air. Oliver blocked the aerial offensive with his own sword risen in front of his face, both hands clenching the handle as Rooper's decisive strike ricocheted through his bones. This boy from Twelve was a looming, career-rivaling powerhouse.

Then Oliver lurched forward with his sword on the offensive, and Rooper reeled back in defense. "Excellent," the deep-voiced eighteen year old said. "That move would've killed anyone who isn't well-versed with the sword." He motioned toward Oliver, who accepted the compliment with an approving nod.

The eager-to-learn Oliver had come to _Rooper_ looking for combat assistance, so the male from Twelve was polite and willing to help. And he was impressed by the other boy's determination. This was Oliver's first experience with sword fighting, and within a few hours he was already proficient enough that the weapon was no longer an alien object. He had the stamina, will, and, most important, the persistent resolve to pick himself up even after Rooper's crushing attacks had disabled his footing.

Then the two boys exchanged another flurry of onslaughts. Rooper struck left, and Oliver blocked left; Rooper attempted to disarm the other, and Oliver lithely held his stance, weapon still in hand. "Good, good," the older boy commended.

"Where'd you learn so much?" Oliver asked as they continued their light sparring.

"Always trained so I could defend myself," Rooper answered, his bass-heavy voice a loud, vocal anchor in the clunky steel-crashing-against-steel room.

"Defend from what?" Oliver swiped his sword upward.

Rooper blocked. "Anything dangerous." _The Capitol_ , he thought.

Oliver knew what that meant. "You're from Twelve, right? Do you work in the mines?" he asked, passing the sword from hand to hand in effort to relieve the sore weight in his right arm.

"No," Rooper answered, delivering a backhanded attack. "I'm the mayor's son."

"The mayor's son?"

" _Adopted_ ," he admitted truthfully. "My real parents are gone."

Gone? Oliver nodded; he didn't want to push the topic any further. Rooper was a polite guy—noble and strong—but he didn't want to prod him mercilessly with questions. Especially questions regarding family.

"In the white room," Oliver said, sidestepping one of Rooper's attacks, "you told us you support the games?"

"I support anything that's fair and just." It was about the only thing of the Capitol's doing that he supported.

"Right," Oliver said. The boy from Nine stole a sideways strike, and Rooper fell back onto his heels, evading the blade altogether. "So how is it being the mayor's son?"

"It's…different than you'd think," Rooper admitted. It was nice talking about his life, in a casual manner as though he had all the time in the world. With the games approaching, the only memories that endured were those of his District Twelve past. "I don't really like it," he admitted. "Being from a wealthy family. Being so connected to the Capitol. But I won't complain—my life has still been good to me."

Oliver respected that: Rooper was honest. Admittedly, he was jealous of and pined for the monetary fortune and opportunities offered by a district mayor's affiliation with the Capitol. But he decided Rooper was a kind-hearted guy who was deserving of such fortune.

"Let's take a break," Rooper said. "I'm thirsty."

"I'll wait here," Oliver responded, his perseverance unwavering.

Rooper left the sword fighting station in search of the cafeteria. Along the way he saw Ambrosia hunting bullseye targets with a longbow and Destin reading a lengthy survival guide. There was Sierra, too; he wasn't particularly fond of that girl ever since she "accidentally" lit half the fire-starting station ablaze. Rooper's crippling—and borderline irrational—fear of burning alive in a fire didn't help much, either. He and Sierra wouldn't make very good allies, he concluded.

At the counter in the cafeteria, the boy from Twelve asked for a bottle of water; he could feel the insatiable thirst clawing at his throat, drawing his awareness to the obvious fact that the arena would be far more unforgiving than any five-hour training room session. Perhaps it would've been wiser to prepare his body for the demanding tasks ahead, but he accepted the frosty water bottle with no complaints.

By the time he swallowed a long swig of his drink, Jean had entered the room and pressed his elbows to the counter, idling next to Rooper. "Hey, big boy," the career said, playing up the other tribute's four-inch-taller height with insults and attempted mockery.

"Hey, Jean." Rooper didn't really like the boy from One. Jean was the walking epitome of a detestable career. And Rooper was the polar opposite: a rebel from Twelve. Careers and rebels shared a ravenous hatred for each other, and although Jean wasn't aware of his covert identity, Rooper knew that the prideful boy would place an unfriendly target on his back if he found out. But he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"So, I've seen you training out there," Jean said. The streaks of white in his blonde hair glistened from the radiating lights overhead. "And I'm smart enough to know that you'll be _well-_ prepared for the arena. I mean, not as prepared as me, but…"

"What are you saying?" Rooper queried. He analyzed the other boy; Jean was certainly stockier—packing a heavier punch—but Rooper had a significant height advantage, and enough muscle to warrant a fairly matched fight between the two.

"You're a tough guy, I'm a tough guy. Put us together and we're unstoppable. So I'm making a proposition: join us in the career alliance, and I'll work with you." Jean leaned even farther onto the counter, biting his lip in a suave, uncaring way.

Rooper straightened his jaw, but effectively withheld revealing emotion. "What do the others have to say about this?"

"Ambrosia? Sandy? Jay? They're in love with the idea." Jean smiled. Rooper was almost taken aback: it was the first time he had ever seen the boy from One display any kind of grin that wasn't some form of his trademark condescending sneer. The smile plastered on his face now was that of seemingly welcoming intent.

Rooper nodded. "I suppose that's fair."

"I know," Jean said. "It's not common for careers to extend kindness to…outsiders."

"What about Two? Cole and Jade?"

Jean simply shrugged. "I dunno. They're not like you and me. They're not…cut out for the arena."

Rooper nodded, inwardly disappointed. Cole and Jade were—if his suspicions were correct—actual rebels. And from District _Two_ at that. He not only respected them, but would have loved the opportunity to consort with other insurrectionists. "I understand."

"Good." And Jean smiled again, the same affable smile that Rooper found so uncharacteristic. But the career sounded true—he sounded like he _wanted_ to work with Rooper, genuinely and without condition. The boy from Twelve felt honored: he had an ally.

"Thanks, Jean," he said, extending a firm hand.

Unseen by other tributes, Roopertutino and Jean Trent exchanged a handshake.

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** Answer as many questions, if any, that you like: (I purposefully make one question for each tribute)

1\. Which do you think holds a stronger grasp over Poison: her paranoia, mental breakdowns, and other sanity issues, OR the burning desire to win fueled by the tragedy her family has seen in the games?

2\. Which end of the spectrum do you think shows greater strength? Elias's stone-faced intimidation, or his softer, philanthropic side?

3\. Why on Earth do you think Sierra would continue her extreme flirtatiousness if she hates herself for it (and many other reasons)?

4\. Rooper + Jean alliance: how do you feel about that?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Ooooh, so, a bunch of new developments this chapter! Looks like Poison has found her will to win; Elias and Lezar have uncovered their friendlier sides; Sierra is, well, being Sierra; and Rooper has found a friend in Oliver and an ally in Jean. Hmm. Some interesting juiciness is planned for next chapter, so stay tuned! Oh, and if you've ever seen the movie "Akeelah and the Bee" you should appreciate Sierra's section...

See ya!


	16. Inglorious Minds

**Website Link:** http COLON SLASH SLASH nothingcomeswithoutsacrificefanfiction DOT weebly DOT com

 **Author's Note:** Heeeey remember me? Yeah, so my plans to update a lot during winter break kind of fell through. Mainly because I was too lazy to do anything other than nothing for a few solid weeks, but yeah. Anyway, I'm back now with A LOT of enthusiasm rejuvenated in writing this fan fic, so I hope you're looking forward to this and the updates that will hopefully be soon to come! Enjoy :)

* * *

 **Chapter 16**

 **Inglorious Minds**

* * *

 **Jean Trent (District 1 Male)**

There was nothing about him that wasn't perfect. Jean's strategies, his sinister plans, his strength, his unmatched level of Hunger Games prowess; he was so mind-numbingly superior to his adversaries that even he could barely contain an outcry of supercilious proclamation. That is, if it weren't for his practiced bearing of nonchalance.

But sometimes perfection hurt. Standing in the presence of twenty-three unworthy rivals was more throbbing than any of the physical damage these inferiors could even inflict on him. It was as though Panem doubted his skills, planting him amongst a group of lackluster four year olds who still didn't understand the proper etiquette of going to the bathroom. And the Capitol expected them to be _competition?_

And Roopertutino, his latest ally: he hadn't even _informed_ the other careers of this new coalition. So long as he got to Rooper first, he could plant the seeds of distrust in his mind: _Hey Rooper, looks like Sandy is having second thoughts about you being in our alliance. I think we should take Sandy out of the picture, don_ _'_ _t you think?_ And then Sandy dies, and Rooper mimics his death shortly thereafter, at the loving hand of Jean, himself. Then he would have Jay—who he deemed the most competent enemy—at his side, with the other male threats gone. And, let's be honest, Ambrosia probably died in the bloodbath, anyway.

Jean smiled inwardly, which outwardly corresponded to a self-satisfied sneer.

But part of him was still disappointed; would any of his triumphant successes be worth anything if his competition was mere preschoolers? At the far end of the training facility's cafeteria, Jean grumbled, tracing his finger along the splintery scars that threaded his right hand.

Then he looked at it, waggled it and tilted it, catching the illuminative beams overhead in the creases of the imperfect cicatrixes on his palm. _Imperfect._

Jean slammed his fist against the table, inciting curious looks from the Avoxes that scurried in the neighboring kitchen.

So _what_ if his mother had him when she was fifteen? And so what if she worked as an undertaker, either? _Someone_ had to do the job, didn't they? Did it really warrant an onslaught of mockery and bullying? Directed at her poor son, whose innocence vanished far too soon, the ignorant bliss of childhood lost in the wake of sadistic lust for revenge.

Jean started his training when he was four years old. Perhaps he wasn't practicing with swords and bows, but even a fallen, shriveled stick lying along his lonely walk home from school had served him well. And for several years, he found peace in quiet, refined strength.

But even _that_ wasn't good enough for District One, was it? Because when he dominated _every_ opponent in the training academy, he wasn't acclaimed. He wasn't complimented or acknowledged, or even respected by his peers. Rather, the ostracizing continued. Even though he was stronger and faster than the other kids, even though he was the toughest guy in the academy and could have broken any adversary on a whim, he was still bullied with relentless effort. Not because his mother worked as an undertaker or because he was fatherless, but because his insecurities, left unchecked, had sprouted into obvious vengeance.

" _You can_ _'_ _t hope to be loved, or even liked, unless you learn to love yourself._ _"_ His mother's words were his mantra, the simplicity and significance of her statement a resounding philosophy of the very demons that had once consumed him.

Love himself. What did that mean? To accept his faults? To accept that no one liked him? To accept that others' opinions meant nothing? That their words shouldn't affect him? That, no matter how diligently someone tried to pry away his self-esteem, embracing his perfection would make their efforts futile? And, in embracing his perfection, realize the truth and responsibility that he is superior to everyone else?

Yes. Jean knew exactly what loving himself meant. And if anyone had an issue with it—Sierra, or Vivian, or Rooper, or any of his oppressors back home—he wouldn't care. He wasn't arrogant: he was simply being a realist. _He is better than everyone._

Jean looked down at his palm. The darkened blemishes were mocking him, derisive reminders of his past life, a life that failed because he hadn't known enough to love himself.

 _The boy wandered through the corridors of his lower school, a building fit for serving the educational needs of three through seven year olds. Little Jean himself was only four, an ambitious child with an unrelenting determination to escape Mrs. Baye_ _'_ _s mathematics-themed storybooks, which she routinely incorporated into her two hour math lecture. But the kinds of books Jean enjoyed_ _—_ _with colorful pictures of talking animals and puppies rescuing little boys from an evil witch_ _—_ _weren_ _'_ _t deemed beneficial to the educational system of Panem. Those stories, those fictional fairytales, could only be found in the back corner of the school library, reserved for the little boys and girls whose nonconformist minds plumbed the depths of imagination._

 _Jean waddled into the voluminous expanse of systematically-stacked books. The room was nearly devoid of life, save for the librarian and a few other children who hid their misbehaving behind the facade of pretending to read._

 _The boy found a nice book about a friendly-looking caterpillar. He didn_ _'_ _t pay much attention to the words, reading only a few here and there. But the pictures, a melting of vibrant colors that gave animation to the caterpillar figment, fascinated him. Art was an entirely new world_ _—_ _and each page opened the dimensional rift into that world a little farther._

 _When he was done with the book, he promptly stood and crept back into the corridor. Mrs. Baye was still probably rambling about plussing and minus-ing things together, so Jean decidedly walked the direction opposite his classroom._

 _On his left was the school greenhouse. He was only allowed inside during scientific instruction, but he didn_ _'_ _t see anyone there. Only himself in the partly-reflective surface of the glass walls._

 _Jean walked inside the greenhouse, enamored by the verdant liveliness of the natural greenery and the dazzling colors of flowers and plant life. The entire scene was so reminiscent of the caterpillar book that he half-expected to find himself stamped onto a leafy page, drawn straight into the book with painted, inky appendages._

" _Hey, you!_ _"_

 _Jean whipped around. Some older boy was watching him; he was six, maybe seven._

" _Your mom_ _'_ _s a funeral worker. Does she see ghosts? Does that mean she_ _'_ _s a witch?_ _"_ _And then the boy laughed an immature snicker, as though he had said the funniest thing in the world._

 _Jean tensed his fists._ _"_ _Shut up,_ _"_ _he said in half-voice. He hadn_ _'_ _t been in a physical fight before. He didn_ _'_ _t even know if he_ could _fight._

" _You_ _'_ _re the witch_ _'_ _s son!_ _"_ _the kid jeered, his voice ragged and womanly as though he were imitating an old crone._ _"_ _You_ _'_ _re the witch_ _'_ _s son! Kill the witch_ _'_ _s son!_ _"_ _He picked up a gardening spade_ _—_ _losing his balance a little_ _—_ _smashing the thing over and over against Jean_ _'_ _s hunched, convulsing back as though it were some sort of game. All the while, he repeated his witch-hunter line, while his four year old victim began coughing up streams of blood._

 _Jean collapsed to the floor. The older boy_ _'_ _s erratic swing left the spade sweeping through empty air, until it crashed into a planting pot. The pot launched upward on impact, smashing through the glass window-wall. Jean took the opportunity to escape, but the older boy caught him by the arm. Irate, he shoved Jean through the broken window and onto the grass outside._

 _Jean felt a sharp stab in his palm as he landed, jagged pieces of pulverized glass sticking into his skin and slicing thin, bloody creases into his hand. Jean wailed in pain, his body writhing helplessly against the earth below. Before long, tears welled in his eyes, and the young boy began to cry._

Jean snorted. He didn't love the Hunger Games because he yearned to quench an insatiable bloodlust. Rather, he loved its asymmetrical beauty. The beauty of something ugly. The beauty of death, decay, sadness, all wrapped tightly into a week-long festival of gore that would leave families depressed and aching with the reverberative echoes of their children's deaths. No caterpillars or butterflies or glittering images of the flora sprawling within a greenhouse. No naive depictions of growth through life, but rather its more fascinating counterpart.

Jean would win the games and District One would finally rejoice in his name. Everyone's jealousy-ridden eyes would instead read volumes of admiration. Other teens from other districts would die, and their families would die with them. But Jean didn't care—he didn't have the heart to care. Brutal visualizations of the game's true beauty flashed quickly through his mind like a serial killer slideshow, and for a moment he smiled: the greenhouse was full of terrible things.

They were wilting through death.

* * *

 **Fia Thame (District 5 Female)**

A muddy explosion of colorants dyed her workstation an ugly brown. Fia was trifling with the camouflage paints, mixing hues of green and purple and gray and hazel inside a large plastic basin. But the final product didn't look convincing—just an odious conglomeration of colors, like a rainbow that tried too hard to be a rainbow.

"Do…do you want help?" Byren offered. He and Fia had agreed to train together, but in the moment he was simply watching her. "I was, um, working on the camouflage yesterday."

"No, thanks," Fia said quickly, busying herself.

Byren was slightly disappointed, but he attributed her fleeting words to her natural desire for independence. "Um, well, I—"

" _By-rennn_ _…_ " Fia stopped her work for a brief moment, looking at her district partner before resuming. "Are you nervous for the games? I'm…getting really nervous."

The tiny boy shuffled his feet against the ground from atop his stool. "Um…I-I've been nervous this whole time," he said ashamedly.

Fia nodded, her eyes on her work. "I've been thinking about the games, and…at one point I was _so_ confident. But now…"—she looked down at the monstrous goop inside the basin, and a creeping smile festered at her lips—"I've just been feeling more hopeless."

"No…don't, don't feel that way…"

"I guess you could say it felt more like a fantasy for a day or two. Like, it didn't actually seem like I was in this situation—or, at least, not for _real._ " Fia was gesticulating with her hands now, her paintbrush flinging colorful globs of pigments through the air. "Like it was all just a little dream I had concocted. I used to do that, you know…fantasize about being in the games, like it might be interesting. But now…Byren, I have to win, I _have_ to. Or else…I'm never going to see my family again." Then she used her free hand to wipe her eyes, tears staining her cheeks a crystalline silver.

"Fia, it'll—"

" _Byren._ _"_ Suddenly, she dropped the paintbrush, her face in her hands. Her entire body was heaving as she began to sob, first quietly, then louder with growing intensity. "My, my family _always_ wanted m-me to be a healer." Her words were choppy and soaked with breathless inflections. "And I kept resisting…s-saying I didn't want to. I-I, I feel so bad now. I should've just…l-listened." She bit the bottom of her lip to restrain a gasping cry, while smaller, high-pitched chokes escaped at odd intervals.

Byren spotted a few other tributes glancing at Fia warily. He quickly put a hand on her shaking shoulder, leaning in as a parent would to console a child. "Your parents still love you," he said. "And…and they would've wanted you to be happy, healer or not. It, it _won_ _'_ _t_ be the last time you see them…I promise."

Fia looked at the boy, still bawling. Her face wasn't one of sadness now, but one of forlorn. "How can you…how can y-you be so sure? What if y-your promise…is just lies?"

Byren's hand was still on her shoulder. But her question troubled him: his social shortcomings left him fumbling for words as it were, and now she wanted him to justify his predictions of the future—it was impossible.

Or maybe, just maybe, it wasn't impossible. Fia was his friend, or the closest thing someone like him could ever have to one. And in this moment, she needed him. "B-because for you, I…I keep my promises."

Fia finally lost it. But something about her increasing sobs didn't sound remorseful; rather, something almost hopeful.

Happy tears.

The tears you cry when you realize there's no need to cry anymore.

"Oh, thank you, Byren." The boy's eyes widened as she embraced him, her final waning tears sliding down her cheeks and into peaceful nonexistence. "Thank you…"

Too awkward to respond, Byren waited for the girl to recover, patting her back ever-so-gently in effort to avoid looking like a cold stone wall to which she was clinging, and not the warm-hearted human he truly was.

"You're…a really good listener," she said, pulling away at last. Her cheeks were flushed orange-red like the color of her hair, her eyes possessing a deep crimson ring where tears once manifested. When Fia realized she must've looked like a blabbering fool, she started to smile—resistively at first, then with uncontrollable giddiness. "I'm pathetic, aren't I?"

Byren shook his head earnestly. "N-no, not at all. I feel…the same way you do."

"Sorry for crying all over you." Suddenly Fia had reverted back to her spunky self, excessive hand motions her aid in communication.

When Byren simply shook his head, as if to tell her not to worry, Fia said, "I hope you weren't expecting a kiss, or something. I'm sorry…"

Byren could've choked on the very air he breathed. "Wh-what? Oh! Um…no, no I wasn't." Did she really think _he_ was lusting for kisses?

"Oh, good. Part of me was wondering if you were helping me just so it would turn into something between us."

The boy looked dumbfounded. "No, not at _all_ ," he promised. Then he backtracked, stammering. "N-no, what I mean is, you're pretty. But, I wasn't…no, I wasn't…it's the _Hunger Games._ "

Fia waved a hand and giggled, silencing him. "No, I understand," she said, smiling. "Thank you for being there for me…for being genuine. You're…a really good person." A good person, and her best friend in the Capitol. Had she considered it—had she cared—she would've told him she was asexual. And Byren would've told her that he was different, too. But none of it mattered; not names or labels or any tragic detail of their past. They only needed each other in the present.

" _You using those?_ _"_ a voice cut across from the other side of the camouflage station. Fia turned: Vivian. The older girl was pointing at the myriad of paints Fia had left strewn about her table. "You don't look like you're doing a very good job," she observed with a grin.

Vivian had been the biggest nuisance in the white room, Fia remembered. Muttering complains, insulting everyone, and presenting herself as an infallible deity who deemed her presence among the other twenty-three "commoners" as worship-worthy. But this churlish girl from Eleven needed a severe assessment of her character, which Fia intended to supply with healthy enthusiasm.

"Give me your paints," Vivian demanded. "You don't need all of them."

"Th-there should be some extra in the crate over there," Byren said, politely pointing.

" _There should be some extra in the crate over there,_ _"_ Vivian parroted, her voice deliberately high-pitched and exaggeratedly feminine.

"Oh, shut up, Vivian!" Fia yelled. Byren instinctively held his throat, as though he could purge the soprano from his vocal cords. "I don't know why you're such a miserable person all the time, but we don't want you here."

"I thought this was the camouflage station," Vivian said with faked innocence. "I didn't realize this was the District Five lounge."

"What do you want from us?" Fia asked, her voice rising quickly.

"I want your paints."

"Oh, no, no, _no,_ " Fia said with insistence. "Byren _told_ you there's more paints in the crate. You came here to bully us, didn't you?"

"Stop being so _sensitive._ And paranoid! You look even more like the pathetic girl you are," Vivian huffed.

"Then stop being intentionally rude!"

"You're the one telling me to leave; how is that not rude, Fia?"

"Because all you do is insult people, and we're sick of it!"

Vivian clenched her fists. "Listen up, you morons: I don't have time to babysit either one of you and your silly little emotions. If you're gonna act defensive and mentally scarred, then why don't you sell your pretty little faces to the nearest butcher and use the money to invest in a psychologist?"

Fia shook her head, gritting her teeth now. Then she stood up, her curly orange hair haloing her head like a lion's mane. "Go," Fia said. "Go away! And don't insult either one of us again. You think you're stronger than us, you think you're better than us, but you're not."

Vivian sneered. "And what if I don't go away?" She took a step closer to Byren and Fia, rolling up her sleeves to reveal scar-splintered wrists and muscled forearms. Thick bands of dark make-up circled her deep brown eyes, the entire ensemble like pools of an obsidian void impressed upon her mocha skin.

She was terrifying.

But Fia only stepped forward, toward her opponent. Retracting in her stance would appear underwhelming and weak. She might not beat Vivian in a fist fight—though she would eagerly try—but she could use her words as a sharp weapon. And Vivian would be an idiot to pursue hand-to-hand combat with the intent of pain: Volt had made it clear she would be punished accordingly. This was her time, Fia realized, to hurt Vivian without any repercussions. And when she was done, the girl from Eleven wouldn't dare insult Byren—or anyone—again.

"I'm not scared of you, Vivian," Fia said.

"Do you want me to break you right now? You're a stupid girl, aren't you?"

"No," Fia countered. "Because you're not who you think you are. You're not evil, like you pretend to be—you're just damaged. Maybe you've had a tragic childhood or something, but haven't we all?"

"I'm just damaged?" Vivian glowered. "And who are you to tell me that? A psychiatrist?"

"No," Fia corrected, a hint of pride tugging at her voice. "I'm a _healer_."

Vivian cracked her knuckles, laughing. "No, you idiot. A healer is a doctor, a person who uses medicine to fix physical—"

"I know what a healer is," Fia interjected. "And now I'm redefining what it means. Physical scars _and_ emotional scars. I come from a family of healers, you know."

"And why do I care about that?"

Fia smiled. "So you know that I have a family who loves me very much. And I don't know what happened to you in your life; maybe family is a foreign word to you. But the twenty-four of us…these tributes, for a little bit of time, we can be a family, too. And the longer you resist, the longer you'll be without us…the longer you'll be without your temporary family. So the next time you say another word to Byren, think about that." Fia put a hand on the boy's shoulder then.

But Vivian only shook her head. "You're just feeding yourself lies, Fia. At the end of the day, you only need yourself. And at the end of this game, only one of us will survive. So what will your sweet, sweet Byren think when you have to murder him? Drive a dagger through his forehead or cut him up into little pieces?"

"You'll never learn, Vivian…" Fia's voice was calm now—tranquil almost—her energy spent. "You'll never learn to feel sympathy, will you? You'll just be a bitter person for the rest of your life, and whether you win or not, you won't change. You'll continue to hate everyone, or think you're better and stronger than the world. And maybe you are…but I don't care." Fia returned to her stool, glancing down at the color-splattered basin. "And I'm still not giving you my paints."

* * *

 **Heracles Kaizer (District 7 Male)**

Heracles knew the key to survival was having close allies. But not _too_ close—he didn't want to feel any sentiment of remorse after turning against them, driving a dagger into their metaphorical and literal backs. Cole and Jade were good allies for the time, so he arranged a meeting inside the spacious cafeteria to formulate strategies.

The siblings from Two, he rationalized, could be used easily as pawns. Their loyalty was unequivocal, given the hardships they had endured as rebels within their career district. They'd be desperate for friends, and they'd be the primary targets of the now-smaller career alliance. He could use them as bait for the careers, luring his aggressors to the siblings, and picking off the careers one at a time. He'd be the hero from Seven, and sponsorships would fall into his lap like pastries at a Capitolian dinner party.

Cole and Jade's purpose would then be spent, and Heracles could easily dispatch them. In doing so, he'd be even more a hero: _he killed the rebels._

"What are your plans?" Jade asked the tanned boy.

Heracles knotted his fingers together, leaning against the table with lighthearted whimsy. "That's what I want to talk about," he said. "We're an alliance now, so we'll need to find each other in the arena. And _fast._ But how?"

"Uh-uhm…" Cole voiced. "We all start in the same place. We could find each other early, somewhere near the cornucopia?"

Heracles nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes. "That's a common misconception…I think," he said. "Finding each other at the cornucopia. It'll be a madhouse: spears flyin' and people running at each other with knives."

Jade shrugged. "Can't we just avoid all that if we don't run to the cornucopia? We could just meet on the outskirts, where the platforms are?" She didn't feel particularly comfortable charging into a bloodbath, preferring the safety of her starting platform a hundred meters away.

"But what about weapons?" Heracles asked. "Weapons, food, supplies?"

The girl leaned against the arm of her chair. "Too risky, isn't it?"

Heracles was poised in deep thought. "It is," he admitted. "But I know that if I run away, I won't be able to sleep knowing that I could've missed something important. A good weapon, or a backpack of food." Then he slapped his knee and laughed. "Then again, I don't think we'll be getting much sleep, anyway!"

Cole swallowed hard, the truth of Heracles' words hitting him with pained realization. "No, we won't be sleeping much at all…"

Jade sighed. "Well, thanks for being positive, guys."

Heracles cracked a grin. "Sorry to disappoint you, Jade."

"Anyway,"—the girl drew circles with her hand, as though issuing the conversation in a different direction—"about meeting in the cornucopia…?"

"Well, I know I'll need a weapon," Heracles said. "And you both probably need some to."

Cole's face struggled to remain expressionless, an internal battle raging back and forth in his brain. He was looking directly at his sister then. "Jade—no. I…I won't let you run into the bloodbath. You need to flee, please. And…and I'll run to the cornucopia, and get you a weapon."

"Stop. You…you don't need to feel bad for me because I'm you're little sister. And…" The raven-haired girl put a hand on her brother's shoulder. "I don't want you risking your life, either."

Heracles scrunched up his face in thought. "Well, I guess I could run in and try to bring you _both_ weapons. But there's no guarantees I'll find supplies for all of us. I mean, I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good."

Jade smiled. "But what'll happen to you?"

"I'll be fine," Heracles said assuredly. "Jean and his troupe of bozos will be too busy flexing their muscles in their pocket mirrors to even notice me. And then…well, District Seven starts on the opposite side of Two. So, I could run to the middle, pick up some supplies, get out quickly to the other side, and _bam!_ I meet up with you guys. Cornucopia, weapons—in and out real quick. Just, don't go running off, because I might not be able to find you."

"We'll stand near the start," Cole said. "Somewhere safe, maybe, like a forest. But…but somewhere near our starting platforms."

"Good," Heracles said, nodding. He leaned back in his chair, appearing content, yet pensive. "You know, Jean and the others had a meeting yesterday without you. Did you…know about it?"

Jade shrugged. "Who cares? We don't need Jean."

"So I take it the other careers haven't offered you an alliance."

Cole shook his head. "No."

Heracles whistled quietly to himself, tilting back in his chair with suave placidity. "Well, that's okay. Who needs 'em, right?"

At the diminutive sound of Cole and Jade's mumbles, the boy from Seven leaned forward, clacking his chair to the ground. "Hey, should we talk to Sierra? I can go get her? She seemed to like you guys. I know she's a bit…unique, but when you look past her fire dancing, or whatever it is that she does, I bet you'll see that she could be a solid asset."

Cole and Jade concurrently nodded, listening quietly as the loquacious boy rambled—seemingly talking to himself, sometimes.

"Good!" Heracles leapt out of his chair with remarkable energy. "I'll be back in a minute."

Heracles spotted the fiery girl meddling with a bow and arrow, putting up an uninspiring display as she fumbled with the obviously foreign weapon. "Hey." Heracles grabbed her hand, stopping her quickly.

Sierra whirled around, startled. "Oh, Heracles…"

"Come on, you're invited. Party in the cafeteria."

Sierra stammered, "Wh-what? Party? What do you mean—"

"Never mind that," Heracles said, tugging slightly on her hand with impish impatience. "We have a meeting, an alliance meeting."

"Oh?" Sierra tried pulling her hand away. "I still have no idea what you're talking about."

Heracles hung his head in exasperation. Then he pulled against her unwilling hand again, like a toddler leading his reluctant parents to the candy he wanted to buy. "You know, for groping everyone in sight, I didn't think you'd put up such a fight against me grabbing your hand."

Sierra rooted herself to the ground, her face unamused and her lips pursed with flagrant crossness.

Heracles noted her feisty half-raised eyebrows and shrunk away. "I-I mean…it's only because you're…like, _really_ friendly. In a good way, I mean. Like a 'I love everyone and everyone loves me' kind of way. Basically, you're truly a hero. I certainly know that you're _my_ favorite tribute in the arena. And—I, uh…" Heracles jumbled his words, quickly running out of things to say. Instead, he merely offered a sheepish grin.

Sierra still didn't look amused.

"Please, just come with me. To Cole and Jade. We want to talk to you. You could call it an alliance meeting, I guess."

Sierra's eyes widened. "Oh! I love Cole and Jade."

"See, I knew I would make you happy."

The girl frowned.

"Sorry!" Heracles released her hand. "Just…come back with me now. Please…?"

"Start walking," Sierra grumbled, nodding.

Inside the cafeteria, Cole and Jade weren't alone. Heracles could hear Jade's lively voice taking on an aggressive, frustrated pitch. He craned his neck, catching sight of the unwelcome tribute standing on the other side of the table: Destin Tames.

"—still don't understand why you think I'm lying," Jade wailed. Heracles caught the trailing end of their conversation.

"What's going on?" the boy from Seven asked.

"Nothing," Cole said, sighing. "It's…nothing."

Destin just snickered, his allergies making his laughter sound like a nasally titter. "That's not true," he said, eyeing Heracles through his square-framed glasses. "I was just trying to understand their motives in this game. Jean was right: this kind of thing just doesn't happen. Rebels from Two…"

Heracles merely shook his head. "You don't think there's ever been rebels from Two before? Not once in three hundred years? Yeah right."

Destin glared at him, frowning. "Of course there've been rebels from Two. But not reaped for the games, and then _denied_ the chance to be volunteered for. And somehow, by some stroke of luck, _both_ siblings happened to get reaped?" The words flared out of Destin's small body with such conviction that he could've been mistaken for an outspoken career.

"What are you saying?" Heracles inquired.

"I'm saying that their reapings were obviously rigged," the boy from Three said. "But not in the way you think: maybe they were rigged because, for whatever reason, Jade and Cole are working _for_ the Capitol, not the other way around. That this story of rebels is simply that: a story, a fantasy."

Heracles rose his eyebrows, feigning awe. "Scintillating theory. Too bad it doesn't make any sense."

Destin frowned. "Trust me on this. I've read a lot of books."

Heracles clasped his hands together. "I've been in a lot of fist fights. This is a fun game. Okay, you're turn!"

Destin ignored the other boy's wit. "Then you should know that brains always beats brawn."

Heracles twisted his whimsical smile into a lopsided frown. Destin was just a scrawny little kid who thought much too highly of himself. "Just wait for the arena. I hope you enjoy eating your own teeth."

Destin smiled now. "You've been in a lot of fist fights? I take it you don't _win_ many of them—do you get hit in the head often? Your brain seems a little…damaged."

"Go away, now. Don't push it."

"Whatever." Destin stepped toward the exit door, but halted abruptly and looked Heracles evenly in the eyes. "I was just saying, I think they have something to hide."

Heracles mimicked Destin's nasally voice with a pinched nose. "Maybe you should stop trusting Jean so much and learn to think for yourself."

The other boy gave a single nod. "Funny, coming from the person who's placed all of his trust in Cole and Jade. Maybe you, Heracles, are the one who needs to re-evaluate."

" _Shut up!_ " Heracles slammed his fist against the table, making Destin jump. Without another word, the boy with the glasses scuttled out of the room before Heracles had time to break his arms.

"Are you alright?" Sierra asked her fuming, red-faced district partner.

Heracles straightened himself, rubbing his temples as though trying to rub Destin from his mind. "Never been better."

"Do you want a drink?" Cole asked. "Maybe some water—"

"No, it's fine, thank you." Heracles smiled. In an instant, he defaulted back to his jovial, humorous self. "Sorry about that; he was just starting to annoy me, and he wouldn't go away."

"Fine by me," Jade said. "He kept pestering us for information."

Cole nodded in agreement, but his mind kept churning out the same relentless thought, like an angry neighbor banging ceaselessly on the doors of his cerebrum: _Destin Tames, the bloodbath tribute._ It didn't matter that Destin hated him; Cole didn't want the boy from Three to die. He didn't deserve it—no one did.

"Anyway," Heracles said. "I've come up with a plan…a strategy." The boy rubbed his hands together with anticipatory excitement. "Cole and Jade: what do you think your stance is with the other careers?"

"They despise us," Jade said without pause. "Jean does, at least."

"Exactly. And Jean's their leader, so they'll probably make you their main targets, don't you think?"

Cole's mouth twisted into a slight frown, words escaping him with difficulty. "Yes…probably."

"Then let's use that to our advantage. If they're your targets, then all we need to do is be ready for their ambush." Heracles glanced at the fire-haired girl standing next to him, searching her expression for any signs of agreement or opposition.

"We'll just need weapons," Sierra said.

"Me and you," Heracles said, "we need to grab some weapons for the siblings at the cornucopia."

"Oh? Um—I guess."

"You don't have to," Cole offered.

Sierra smiled at him, moving a little closer from across the table to meet his gaze with unnecessary intimacy. "Thanks, Cole. I haven't decided what I'm doing yet. Running to the middle or…fleeing."

Heracles turned among his three allies. "Well, whatever happens, we'll need to be ready. Cole and Jade, we use you guys as bait. Sierra and I lie in wait for the careers, and when they come, we ambush them."

Sierra nodded, face riddled with anxiety.

"Thank you, Sierra, by the way," Jade said. "For everything…for helping us."

"Like I said…" The other girl looked between the siblings. "I got your back." As far as she was concerned, Cole and Jade were the bravest people she had ever met. Not because they were rebels, but because they were forced to deal with everyone's insults and rejection, both in the game and throughout their entire lives. And no one deserved to feel unwelcome, no matter how deviant or unorthodox they were. Of that, Sierra was steadfast and certain.

"It's a good plan, I think," Heracles added.

Sierra touched his shoulder. "And I have a way to make it even better." Her eyes glistened, dancing in their usual far-off and lunatic way. "With fire."

Heracles grinned. Sierra may have been a bit eccentric, but it was her eccentricities that she excelled at. It was a pity that he would need to betray her trust, and Cole's, and Jade's. But in this battle of the fittest, mercy was for the weak.

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** All three POV tributes this chapter have expressed some form of emotional weakness. But which of the three do you think is the strongest from an emotional (NOT physical) point of view?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Yay! Hopefully this writing high continues for a while because I've become so reinvigorated in this story over the past couple of days. Thank you everyone who has shown and continues to show interest in this fan fic! Let me know what you think of Chappy 16 :) Til next time~


	17. Diminution

**Website Link:** http COLON SLASH SLASH nothingcomeswithoutsacrifice DOT weebly DOT com

 **Author's Note:** Hey! Remember me? Yeah, sorry for the bit of a delay. Hopefully things could get back onto a better kind of schedule, which I'm still trying to figure out. Regardless, the new chapter is HERE, and if you've had any fears that I wouldn't be continuing this fic then you can put your qualms to rest because I have so many plans for the future chapters that it would be tragic to stop. That being said, let's hope I can get myself moving and WRITE. Haha :)

* * *

 **Chapter 17**

 **Diminution**

* * *

 **Lezar Murnon (District 8 Male)**

Life in the games was exhausting. The chariot ride, the white room, the training days: the games hadn't even begun, but this preparatory week was so jam-packed with activity that it was hard to believe he would have any energy left for the arena whatsoever.

But he had made a friend. Well, maybe not a _friend_ , but Elias could be a potential ally. And Arabella, too, protected him as though he were her child. The girl was so good-natured that his heart ached for her. He didn't want her to die; he didn't want her amity to sneak up and kill her. A fraction of him wanted to tell the girl to save herself, to abandon him if she needed to. But he understood that strength would find whoever had the most allies. For that reason alone, he knew they needed to stick together.

Arabella's eyes twinkled. She stood opposite the boy, having sought out her district partner to train with. "We could try hand-to-hand combat?" she asked, shrugging. The unsure look on her face, coupled with the delicate point of her hand toward the fist-fighting station, told Lezar that the girl probably had no experience in the art of fisticuffs. For that matter, neither did he.

The boy shied away. "Umm…maybe something less dangerous?" In truth, he didn't need to amplify his shame with a hideously embarrassing performance at hand-to-hand combat. "But, but we can if you want to…"

"I don't think we would hurt each other…right?" Arabella giggled, but then conceded. "You're right, it looks a little scary…"

The boy wasn't sure what to say. Driving a conversation had always been daunting, a task Lezar knew he resented more than he needed to. But he trusted Arabella, and he felt close to her. She might have never been his friend back in District Eight—though, in the white room she had promised she would've. And at the moment, a white room promise was enough for him. "Here," Lezar said, nodding toward a gentle-looking station lined with books and rubber plants. "It might be good to read," he said.

"That's the poisonous plants station," Arabella noted.

"And…and dangerous animals," Lezar added. "We could learn about what to expect."

The eighteen year old nodded. "Okay," she said, smiling.

Arabella eyed the lengthy tomes stacked on the table—they were identical copies of the same encyclopedia, countless pages of archived information: lethal Capitol-engineered foods, plants, and animals that might be found in the arena. She sat down, the girl's eyes were wide with bemusement. "I hope you have a good memory," she said as she leafed carelessly through the pages.

"I think I do," Lezar answered, his statement sounding more like a question.

"How are we going to memorize this entire book?" Arabella wondered.

"Um…" The boy, too, was slightly overwhelmed by the daunting scope of the textbook. But he enjoyed reading and studying and anything of the like, so this was simply a challenge for him—not an impossibility. "Hm…" he pondered, analyzing the encyclopedia as though it were one of his schoolbooks. "We won't be able to memorize everything, or even close to everything. There's over a thousand plants and animals in here…we'll just try to remember the commonly found ones."

Arabella curled a few strands of her hair around a finger. "But how will we know which ones are common?"

"Look," Lezar pointed to her book. "At the bottom of the page. It shows how many victims its claimed." The girl's eyes met the inky text of the page: indeed, it read _Siphon Leaf, Victims Claimed: 20_. "That's how many tributes its killed," Lezar said. "But look at this page." He displayed his own book. "This one's killed over three hundred."

"Oh, wow! How clever," Arabella said, grinning.

Lezar admired the girl's enthusiasm. It was hard to believe she understood the gravity of their situation, though he respected her more for that very reason. She wasn't tragically depressed or desperately clinging to scraps of sanity. Arabella was happy—she was _always_ happy. She got along well with the stylists, always commenting on how cute their outfits were. And she was always thrilled to talk to her mentor and escort, even though they often exchanged behind-her-back eye-rolls in silent agreement that she was a naive airhead. But it just made Lezar like her even more: she was keeping him sane, and her high spirits kept his mind off the creeping images of death that plagued every corner of the Capitol. And he knew she wasn't a naive airhead, either: she was the only one who wasn't going crazy.

"I thought you wore your bow every day?" Lezar asked her.

Arabella felt her hair, gently first and then with frenzied panic. "Where'd it go?!" she exclaimed. "My bow—it fell out!" She sprang up from her seat with such fervor that she knocked it over. "I'll be right back," she muttered.

Lezar watched from his chair as she back-tracked her steps through the training facility. She looked under tables and behind racks of weapons. She searched the cafeteria, the bathrooms, rushing from station to station in search of her hair bow.

Arabella was such an interesting person, Lezar realized. She could've been more concerned about hundreds of other things—including the danger of an imminent death—but she worried herself over a hair accessory. The boy knew his mentor and escort would be appalled to see their district female concentrating on a bow instead of training. But Lezar also knew Arabella had her priorities straight: facing a hard reality was nearly impossible. However, casting aside that reality and maintaining her true self—the girl who laughed at everything, the girl who always tried to help, the girl who loved her hair bow—was more powerful than any amount of stress-ridden training.

And now Lezar realized that Arabella could handle herself. Because she wasn't trying to become something that she wasn't.

Content, the boy glanced down at the heavy book resting in his palms. It was incredible to think the Capitol was responsible for the creation of so many killing machines. Plants that spewed gases, leaves sharp as knives, killer birds that could dig and hide in the dirt, and bushes that could slide along the ground as though they were actually animals themselves.

But Lezar already knew to fear anything that looked dangerous. What scared him more was the camouflaged creatures that you couldn't see even if you squinted, or the plants that looked like mere shrubs but could inject lethal toxins into your bloodstream.

Lezar read as much as he could, and tried to commit this newfound knowledge to memory. If he were in the arena, he would need to know what this flora and fauna looked like. He would need to know what kind of antibiotics would cure an injection or a bite. He would need to know what these creatures' weaknesses were, or if the plants were repellent to flame or sunlight or water. There were so many images and statistics to memorize that being a "nerdy teacher's pet" was serving its purpose. Repeating words out loud would ingrain them in his mind with greater accuracy, he knew. And associating certain pictures or names with something more familiar to him would forge a deeper level of memorization.

"I found it!"

Arabella's cheery voice made the boy jump. Her face beamed with delight, the bow delicately fixed atop her head.

"Oh…good," Lezar said, still shaken. He slouched in his chair, the book balanced in his hands.

"When I found it, Sandy started complaining." The girl's eyes lingered on the floor. "He said I act like a child."

The boy swallowed hard. His district partner's elated mood wasn't diminished, but he could tell she acting different. Sandy—and the stylists who always insisted she "remove that wretched bow"—were trying to change her, but she resisted. Lezar saw strength in that, though he felt too awkward to tell her. Instead, he timidly replied, "Just don't listen to him."

"I don't," came her answer. "He's just troubled—I don't blame him. The games are stressful, and he's obviously stressed. Even as a career."

Her words were fact, Lezar recognized. It was easy to forget that even the most terrifying tributes were afraid of the same uncertainties that lurked in the dark future. "Do…do you hate the careers?"

Arabella tilted her head, as though she were a puppy confused by her whereabouts. "No," she said. "Of course I don't. I don't agree with training for the games, but I don't hate anyone. They're just doing what they're supposed to do, I guess. But it's the people who don't have the experience—like me, or Cole and Jade, or others—who I want to protect." Then the girl flashed a quick grin, turning the conversation back towards the boy. " _Why?_ Do _you_ hate the careers?"

"I…I don't hate them." Lezar glanced away, feeling embarrassed, like his emotions were unmasked. "But I hate the games. I wish…they didn't exist."

"Don't we all?"

"I wish…I didn't have to die. I wish…no one had to die."

Lezar shut his eyes then, face resting against his book. He felt a tap on his shoulder, but kept his eyes closed, only bothering to elicit a weak noise.

He could sense Arabella's presence move closer to him. And then she whispered: _"_ _Then let_ _'s survive."_

* * *

 **Hydan Olser (District 6 Male)**

He just wanted to sleep. Eight hours of training had taken a toll on his body—even though he spent the majority of the time sitting and watching people, only training on-and-off at the knife-throwing station when his boredom became too palpable.

The thought of the Hunger Games was ominous; they were exhausting even to think about. More training, a private session, interviews—he just wanted to relax, lie down, _be lazy_. But instead, he'd be shoved through days of preparing, hours spent being scrutinized by stylists and even more hours wasted developing plans with his mentor. Then, he'd be whisked off into the area, where laziness would get him killed.

Hydan knew he could win the games. But it would have to be on _his_ terms: thought and analyzation. Training with weapons too heavy for him would accomplish nothing. But _thinking_ would accomplish _everything_ : just sitting back and contemplating his genius strategies, allegiances to other tributes, and methodologies by which he could outsmart his opponents. _Brains over brawn_ , he promised himself.

For a while, it had become even too tiresome to think. Just hours before, the gears in his complex mind had spun themselves to overuse, leaving the boy empty and inevitably sleepy: the stools in the trap-making station, though not very comfy, had served as a welcome seat on which he could take a nap.

He was awake now—still mounted on top of the stool—chin resting gracelessly against his palm. His mind mulled lazily over the present situation: the Capitol was making a mistake. He was a genius—he had an IQ of 200, after all. Did the President and her pretty people really want to risk the life of such an intellectual prodigy?

And the odds at the readings had been _well_ in his favor: his family was wealthy, never facing the threat of starvation and never requiring the—counterproductive—"benefit" of tesserae. His name had barely found its way into that glass bowl, and if the Capitol had been smart, they would have removed every _'Hyden Olser'_ altogether.

The boy groaned: he missed his old life. Sleeping twelve hours a day, spending the other hours in the blissful trance of contemplation, watching inferior passers-by who exposed their jealousy with unhidden glares and caustic low-toned comments. He never had to work, nor did he want to. True work was accomplished in thought, real productivity hidden behind the walls of introspection and outward observation.

He scanned the training room. So many people relished in their physical strength: Jean, Kieson, Vivian, Rooper. Although they were heavily-muscled titans, capable of scaring even the most level-headed tribute, Hydan feared others more:

Destin, that clever boy from Three.

Jay, the most unpredictable career.

Byren, Lezar, Arya—all intelligent opponents.

They were the only people he respected. They didn't possess his level of intelligence, of course, but they wielded a degree of brainy threat that he could recognize. And he wanted them as allies.

"What are you doing?" Volt scrunched up his face in annoyance, the blonde-haired Peacekeeper slamming down his fist on an adjacent stool in effort to scare the tribute from Six. "You haven't moved from that seat all day."

"Actually, I was training earlier," Hydan said. "Throwing knives. But it wasn't helping, so I'm training here, instead."

Volt shook his head, chuckling as though he had successfully caught Hydan in a lie. "I've been watching you for hours. You're not training—you're just sitting there, sleeping half the time."

Hydan smirked in a 'tsk-tsk' manner. "Contrary to your obvious belief, _training_ doesn't have to include drinking protein shakes and doing sit-ups all day. I'm training my _mind,_ which is just as powerful as the body. Also, I don't enjoy the notion that you've been 'watching me for hours'—please stop doing that."

Volt grunted. "I can do whatever I want: I'm the head Peacekeeper."

The dark-haired boy smiled amusedly. "You're not the 'head Peacekeeper'. You're just the guy in charge of running the training days. I mean, I guess you're the _head Peacekeeper_ of this dimly lit basement-level room. Though, considering half the people here are fifteen years old, you're more like the head babysitter _._ "

Volt swallowed his growing frustration and flashed a maniacal, knowing look. "Sit there," he said. "Do nothing. You'll just die sooner in the games. And with that personality of yours, I'm sure the fifteen year olds will have no problem killing you." The disheveled Peacekeeper turned his back to Hydan and stalked back to the center of the training room.

But the boy from Six simply scoffed, uncaring. Idiots like Volt took what intelligence they had—in this case very little—for granted. A musclebound titan could plow full-force through the arena, killing any living creature in his way. But a smart creature wouldn't be in his way. A smart creature would be tucked in the shadows, knowing that they've won. Because the musclebound titan had just plowed his way into a trap.

" _Hydan, honey, there are people here who want to speak with you._ _"_ _His mother_ _'_ _s voice slithered choppily through his shut door. It was three in the afternoon, and the boy hadn_ _'_ _t moved from his king-sized bed._

" _Can'_ _t they leave the maids a message?_ _"_ _Hydan asked grouchily. His voice was thick with fatigue and laced with the icy intonations accompanying a sleep-deprived insomniac._

 _Sharon rasped gently against the door now, her son_ _'_ _s lazy antics wearing her patience thin._ _"_ _They_ _'_ _re people from the Capitol. They want to speak with you about a job offer._ _"_

 _The sixteen year old felt a slight pang of intrigue, but remained motionless. What could the Capitol want with him? It was no surprise he was a genius—with an IQ of over 200—and was a well-known citizen of District Six for that reason. Had word of his brilliance spread to the Capitol? Part of him felt flattered, but another part felt offended: it took the Capitol sixteen years to finally reach out to him?_

 _Hydan crawled out of bed, slowly at first. When his mom knocked louder on his door, he staved her off with an insouciant_ _"_ _Yeah, yeah, yeah,_ _"_ _changing into clean clothes and meeting her out in the hall._

 _A long walk down the second-floor hall brought Hydan and his mother to the front of the building, where the boy found the Capitol representatives waiting in the foyer of his parents_ _'_ _grandiose estate._

" _Hydan, it'_ _s nice to meet you,_ _"_ _a man said, extending a hand. The boy was caught off guard at first, unfamiliar with the Capitol_ _'_ _s unusual show of politeness toward mere district citizens._

" _What_ _'_ _s going on?_ _" Hydan asked._

" _We_ _'_ _re here to offer you a job,_ _"_ _a woman said. Her hair was a rainbow of colors and the glasses perched on her nose were designed with exaggerated triangular frames._ _"_ _You_ _'_ _ll be an inventor at one of our finest technology centers. You_ _'_ _ll work with the most intelligent people in Panem and design the most cutting-edge robotics for our country. You can come with us right now, and we_ _'_ _ll take you on a tour of the Capitol, if you like?_ _"_

 _The boy hesitated, his mind spinning and busy calculating the woman_ _'_ _s words. The offer was impressive. The Capitol wanted_ him _. But it sounded like a lot of work: moving to the Capitol, working in the laboratory on a daily basis. All of his time and energy would be consumed, and it didn_ _'_ _t feel worth it. He didn_ _'_ _t want a job: he wanted happiness. In the Capitol, he_ _'_ _d need to work. But in District Six, he didn_ _'_ _t have to do anything to be content._

" _As good as it sounds, I think I_ _'_ _ll have to decline your offer._ _"_ _Hydan spoke the words with level-headed assurance. His parents_ _'_ _eyes bulged, and the man and woman at his door seemed slightly taken aback._

" _Are you sure?_ _"_ _the woman pressed._ _"_ _You don_ _'_ _t need to make the decision until after you_ _'_ _ve toured the Cap—"_

" _I'_ _m sure,_ _" Hydan confirmed._

The boy frowned. His parents hadn't liked that decision, and his sister hadn't stopped nagging him about his laziness thereafter. And now, sitting on that stool in the training facility, reminiscing about his past life, a hard realization struck him: _The Capitol was making a mistake. Did the President and her pretty people really want to risk the life of such an intellectual prodigy?_

But they weren't making a mistake. They didn't remove his name from that bowl because he wasn't a member of the Capitol. He wasn't serving the President. He could've been making the technology for these games at this very moment, but instead he was reaped and doomed to die. The Capitol got their revenge, he realized. Even if he wasn't reaped intentionally, the poetic justice of the situation made his head throb with regret.

Hydan still frowned. This coincidental retribution was nevertheless a mistake. As a person, he was too important to be in the games, too smart. After all, he had an IQ of over 200.

* * *

 **Olivia Glassow (District 9 Female)**

" _What_ _'_ _d you bring for lunch?_ _"_

" _A sandwich. You?"_

" _The same._ _"_

" _And an apple._ _"_

" _Oh, that_ _'_ _s nice._ _"_

" _You can have some if you want._ _"_

" _Thanks. What_ _'_ _d you bring, Oliver?_ _"_

 _The boy wasn_ _'_ _t really paying attention to his friends._ _"_ _Wh-what?_ _"_ _he stammered, adjusting his cafeteria seat._

" _What_ _'_ _d you bring for lunch?_ _"_ _Tannon asked._

" _Oh, sorry_ _…a sandwich."_

" _We_ _'_ _re the same people._ _" Linden grinned._

" _Where_ _'_ _s your brother?_ _"_ _Tannon asked Oliver._

" _Who—Kale? He stayed home today._ _"_

 _Tannon and Kale were the same age—_ _eleven_ _—and good friends. Tannon was the genius of the group, the pale, freckled kid with messy dark hair._ _"_ _I wanted to show him some new research books._ _"_

" _He'_ _ll be here tomorrow, I think._ _"_

" _Does anyone want my apple?_ _"_ _Linden offered. He was thirteen, Oliver_ _'_ _s age, hair sandy blonde and eyes dark and jumpy. Despite the two year difference, he was no bigger than Tannon, and it was obvious he was underfed and drastically small for his age. Linden was the groups_ _'_ _s emotional support—or, in most cases, the wreck—finding it easy to cry and have his feelings punctured._

" _The apple_ _'_ _s all yours,_ _"_ _Oliver told him, nodding._ _"_ _Really, you need to eat._ _"_ _It was no surprise Linden probably looked like a skeleton beneath his clothes._ _"_ _Are you healthy?_ _"_

" _Don_ _'_ _t worry, I_ _'_ _m fine. This is more food than I_ _'_ _ve seen in weeks._ _"_ _Linden looked down at his tattered lunch-bag, awing over the small sandwich and apple he had stuffed inside._ _"_ _I might not finish it all, if you want any._ _"_

 _Oliver nodded his head in thanks, but would rather see himself starve before either of his friends could feel even the slightest pang of hunger._

" _What_ _'_ _d you do today?_ _"_ _Tannon asked no one in particular._

" _Went to class,_ _"_ _Linden replied._ _"_ _Like always._ _"_

" _Class is a waste of time,_ _"_ _the eleven year old genius said._

 _Oliver nodded._ _"_ _Agreed._ _"_

" _Logan_ _'_ _s still making fun of me,_ _"_ _Linden said, his voice falling._ _"_ _Making fun of all of us, really._ _"_

" _What_ _'_ _d he say to you?_ _"_ _Oliver asked, unmistakable anger inflaming his words._

" _He saw me crying, so he called me some names. I told him to stop, so he came over and shoved me._ _"_

 _Oliver gritted his teeth._ _"_ _That_ _'_ _s it,_ _"_ _he said, pushing himself from the cafeteria chair._ _"_ _Where is he? I_ _'_ _ll rip his head off if I—"_

" _No, no!"_ _Linden grabbed Oliver_ _'_ _s arm, trying to pin the stronger boy in place._ _"_ _It_ _'_ _s fine. And he still makes fun of me for hanging out with you, but I told him to buzz off._ _"_

 _Oliver_ _'_ _s face melted into a depiction of regret._ _"_ _You don_ _'_ _t have to be friends with me. Really, he only started targeting you because he sees you with me. And that_ _'_ _s not fair on you._ _"_

" _Stop being friends with you? After all this time? Are you crazy?_ _" Linden'_ _s reaction wasn_ _'_ _t forced or faked. The genuineness behind his words made Oliver_ _'_ _s heart swell with the warm feeling of being appreciated._ _"_ _And plus, Logan_ _'_ _s been making fun of me for years. He won_ _'_ _t stop, trust me._ _"_

" _Whatever,_ _" Oliver muttered._ _"_ _Logan_ _'_ _s an idiot._ _"_

 _Linden glanced at Tannon._ _"_ _What about you? How_ _'_ _re you and Sage getting along?_ _"_

 _Sage was Logan_ _'_ _s twin, a manipulative bully in her own light, no better than her brother. She resented Oliver and his friends, but reserved specific loathing for Tannon and his big brain._ _"_ _I haven_ _'_ _t seen Sage today, yet. Good riddance._ _"_

 _Oliver snorted. Sage was a pretty girl, but any natural beauty was overshadowed by her superficial and unaccepting character._ _"_ _Sage is an idiot, too._ _"_

 _A voice echoed behind Oliver_ _'_ _s head._ _"_ _What_ _'_ _d you say about my sister?_ _"_

 _The three boys turned, their eyes resting on a manic Logan._

" _Oh."_ _Oliver frowned._ _"_ _It_ _'_ _s you._ _"_

" _Yes it is, pretty boy._ _"_ _Logan laughed._ _"_ _Or should I say, pretty_ girl? _"_

" _Leave him alone!_ _"_ _Tannon shouted instinctively._

" _Or what?_ _"_ _Logan asked. And he grabbed Linden_ _'_ _s neck and slammed the boy_ _'_ _s cheek against the table. The blonde let out a shriek, face throbbing on impact as he wriggled in Logan_ _'s grasp._

 _Oliver brought up a fist._ _"_ _Let him go._ Now. _"_

 _Logan snickered._ _"_ _Olivia, if you hit me, I_ _'_ _ll break his neck._ _"_ _The boy dug his fingers into Linden_ _'s skin. Logan'_ _s victim began to tear up, his face still pressed firmly against the cold cafeteria table._

 _Oliver didn_ _'_ _t waver, his fist still in the air._ _"_ _Fight_ me _, Logan. I'_ _m the one you have a problem with._ _"_

" _Sorry, but I won_ _'_ _t hit a girl._ _"_ _Logan grinned, his smile like that of a wicked horse._ _"_ _Although in this case"—and he tightened his grip around Linden_ _'_ _s neck_ _—"this guy here_ screams _like a little girl._ _"_

" _Shut up!_ _"_ _Tannon called, but suddenly his arms were pulled behind his back, and the boy was rendered harmless._

" _Don_ _'_ _t talk to my brother like that,_ _"_ _Sage said, materializing out of thin air. She smiled at her brother with diabolical intent, who returned the expression with his own sinister look._

 _Oliver had never felt so helpless and angry before. There he stood, his friends struggling beneath the apathetic hands of the merciless Taggard siblings._

" _Oh, Olivia, won_ _'_ _t you rescue your friends?_ _"_ _Sage taunted, her hands still tightly binding those of Tannon._

 _Oliver was calculating his move. Logan had severely wounded Linden in the past, and Sage was crazy enough to draw blood from her eleven year old prey. And both twins were threatening to hurt his friends if he dare make a move against them. But if he was fast enough, he might be able to catch them both off guard._

 _And that was exactly what he intended to do._

 _The boy brought his fists up and—_

" _Break it up, kids._ _"_ _One of the science teachers had picked his way over to the table._ _"_ _Let'_ _s go. Break it up._ Now."

 _Logan released Linden a little too roughly, and Sage dug her fingernails into Tannon_ _'_ _s skin before letting go of his arms. Oliver, more slowly, lowered his fists._

 _Mr. Valkire nodded._ _"_ _Good, now separate, and each your lunch. No more disturbances._ _"_ _Then the teacher turned swiftly and walked away._

 _Logan passed Oliver before leaving._ _"_ _See you around, Olivia,_ _"_ _he muttered. And Sage followed suit, tittering a dainty, innocent-sounding laugh as she flipped her hair and strutted away from the fray._

" _You_ _'_ _re lucky,_ _"_ _Oliver called after them._ _"_ _You_ _'_ _re really lucky_ _…"_

"Goodnight, Willow," Oliver said. He and his district partner were sitting on one of the semicircular couches in their fifteenth floor training center accommodations. They faced the wall-covering window, gazing out into the illuminated nightlife below. If the Capitol's machinations weren't so barbaric, the place might be beautiful. But it was hard to perceive beauty in the face of death.

"You too," Willow said. "Hope your training day was good."

Oliver nodded, not looking at the older boy. "It was, thanks. You gonna be okay with Sandy? I know he wants you dead, for whatever reason."

Willow swallowed hard—Oliver hadn't put the truth very lightly. "Yeah…I'll be fine."

"I won't kill you, you know," Oliver said. "You've been nothing but nice to me this whole time. You don't…deserve to die."

Words caught in Willow's throat. "Thanks…I'd protect you, too."

Oliver let his words sink in. It was nice knowing there was someone willing to offer him protection. Even if he didn't think he needed it, even if he knew he could win the games. Willow was there for him, and that was all that mattered. "I'll see you tomorrow," Oliver finally said. "I'm pretty tired."

Willow bid him goodnight, and the fourteen year old quickly made for the door. His bedroom was cold—just the way he liked it. It was easier to sleep that way.

Oliver analyzed himself in the mirror. He had always felt capable of winning the games, never really giving his doubt much credence. He was decently toned, far from the carved muscles of a career, but stronger than many. Stronger than most of his female counterparts, at least, and several of the guys, as well.

He patted his chest, feeling the medical ace-style bandages he had binding his torso. He was sore, he realized, from a hard day's work. Sleep would come easy, so long as he wasn't haunted by the demons of the night. _His_ demons. The demons that lurked within him, gnawing parasitically at his soul.

When he had been on the couch, when he had seen the lights of the Capitol outside the window, he had felt a blossoming hope in his stomach. A hope that he could win the games, and receive all the money and fame he could need to make him—biologically—the male he wanted to become.

Hope saved lives. Hope gave strength. And in that moment, he needed strength more than ever.

* * *

 **END OF DAY 3**

* * *

 **Chapter Question:** Of the three main characters this chapter-Lezar, Hydan, and Oliver-whose personality do you find most relatable (to your own)? But whose do you find most likable?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Yay! Okay, so I actually really enjoyed writing this chapter. Also, this concludes the second training day, which means we're almost to the private sessions. Not only that, but we're kinda getting close to the actual games themselves. Only 4 days left :)

Please let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!


	18. Author's Note

**Author's Note:**

Heya guys, it's been a long time. I've been toying a lot lately with whether I should continue this, so I figured I would let the decision up to the readers. I have tons of ideas (the majority of the fic is planned out) and I do want to write them.

In case you're wondering where I've gone, I've spent the last few months working on a novel—perhaps it'll be posted on fictionpress/wattpad at some point. But that'll be another time…

Anyway, I'm just curious to know if people are still interested and want me to continue this fic. I would continue to update the website and hopefully be able to upload more chapters more quickly since it's the summer now. Feel free to message me or leave a comment with your opinions!

Shoutout to my readers and fans—you guys are the best. =]


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